Be Near Me When My Light Is Low
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Sherlock is back in the world after The Fall. Back in London, back with John. It's everything he ever wanted, everything he fought for- It should be everything he needs. But something is wrong with Molly Hooper and he's determined to get to the bottom of it... Whether Ms. Hooper wants him to or not. Hard T for some language, rating may change. Sherlolly, if you squint...
1. The Noise of Life Begins Again

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. The title and all chapter names are taken from the poem __"__In Memoriam,__"__ by Tennyson. Please note that this story will contain references to unhealthy relationships and possible domestic abuse. _

**THE NOISE OF LIFE BEGINS AGAIN**

_ The first time it happens, she__'__s performing an autopsy. _

It's a complicated procedure and Sherlock needs the results to be unimpeachable or his client will go to trial. Noor's only seventeen, her whole life ahead of her, and for that reason Sherlock supposes he must ensure that only the best pathologist takes part. So he comes into St. Bart's- his first visit since his return- and he demands to see Molly. He told Lestrade to put her on the case and he's certain that- annoyance at his faking his death notwithstanding- the DI did as he asked.

The girl at the front desk seems well aware of who he is and she nods him through, handing him a visitor's pass and then going back to her scintillating copy of _Heat _magazine. Barely paying any attention to which way he's going, and if he weren't in the middle of a case then Sherlock would probably be horrified at how lax security has gotten in his absence. _But that__'__s not why he__'__s here_, he reminds himself as he hurries to the morgue. He's here to make sure that his case gets solved. He's here to show that, though he lied to everyone he loves and faked his death, he is still a trust-worthy individual who can do some good. _So John can stop randomly punching him whenever they meet. _As he walks he's aware that his step is growing brisker, anticipation building within him. He hasn't seen Molly since before he returned to life in Baker Street, and he's unwilling to examine how eager to speak with her he is. _After all, it__'__s only been six months. _But be that as it may, he turns a corner and practically bounds into the Lab, mouth already open to start bombarding her with questions-

She's standing at the slab, scalpel in hand, when he enters.

She looks exactly as he remembers from their months together in her flat, expression intent, slim body unutterably still with concentration, but for the first time in his life Sherlock just feels like something about her is… _off. _

It's not her clothing, though that's different. In the latter months of his hiding out in her flat she had begun changing her usual style, the flat pumps and runners she'd worn everywhere giving way to low kitten heels. The t-shirts turning to blouses, jeans replacing her usual tracksuit bottoms- _Not that Sherlock had noticed all that much_. At the time he hadn't thought much of it, had noted it as something vaguely discomfiting but not all that important. _He had, however, liked the way she looked._

But the Molly who greets him this morning is dressed exactly like the Molly who orchestrated his fall, right down to the frankly ridiculous, cherry-stalk-patterned cardigan she's wearing. Her hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail over her shoulder, wisps of it all around her face. She's not wearing makeup, and the small, hoop earrings she had begun favouring when last he saw her are gone. It's… odd. _Very, very odd. _

And staring at her, he can't see a clue as to why she might be dressing the way she is.

Sherlock opens his mouth to greet her, not breaking his stride as he makes his way over to the body. He's carrying two paper cups of coffee (_or as John describes them, caffeinated apologies_) one on top of the other. _If he__'__s going to talk to anyone, Sherlock has discovered that it__'__s just better to have them to hand._ But before he can get within three feet of Molly she stiffens. Visibly. It takes her a moment to even look at him.

He comes to a halt, the half-smile he'd been wearing falling away.

_ He__'__s never seen Molly react to him like that before and he__'__s surprised how much it__…__ irks him_.

But he decides not to say anything. For all he knows she's uncomfortable being around him again- it's one of those feelings things, apparently- and it would probably be better for him to give her time and not just snap, "Oh, do cop the fuck on, John." _After all, raising his voice to Molly isn't really a very pleasant thing to do._ And he should probably just be grateful that she's gotten over her dressing up phase and turned back into the woman he knows again. _It really was most disturbing, watching her wriggle and sashay around the flat. _So he slows but doesn't stop, placing her coffee on the work-table beside her. She's a scalpel in one hand and a human heart in the other, it's highly unlikely she'll want a drink right now. "Good morning," he says instead. He tries to make it sound friendly.

She murmurs something which might be "good morning, Sherlock," but it's so muffled he can't be sure.

He holds his peace though, waits for her to say something else. It's an approach which tends to work when you value what the approachee thinks of you more than you value what you can get out of them by way of evidence. The silence stretches out however, Molly still not looking at him. She half-stammers observations on the corpse quietly into her Dictaphone and Sherlock feels like he may as well not be there.

If there's one thing he hates, it's being ignored_. Just ask Mycroft_. He's made a career out of ensuring that he never is, and today will be no exception. So he strolls casually over to the other side of the slab, leans over her shoulder. He knows how she hates when he does that- she calls it being a "backseat pathologist,"- and he's sure the irritation will get her to talk. She must be so intent on the corpse that she doesn't notice him moving. He's behind her before she even realises, and her eyes widen as she takes in how near he actually is. Sherlock grins, ready to tease her about... something- _he always comes up with __**something**_- but as he does so he notices the way she's standing. She's stiffened sharply and for some reason he does not wish to examine Sherlock finds that very troubling indeed. The brown eyes widen further as she takes him in, a flash of what might be nervousness in their depths, and whatever he was about to say suddenly doesn't seem all that important-

"You're not supposed to be this near," she says. She's chewing at her lower lip. Sherlock finds it unsettling. "You- You might compromise the evidence if you don't move back-"

"I've stood over your cadavers before, Molly," he points out reasonably.

Again something flashes through her eyes, too quickly to decipher this time, and once again Sherlock thinks it looks like nervousness. But before he can tease the thought out, she catches him noticing. Tries to compensate. _Now_ she meets his gaze, though it seems to Sherlock that she's forcing herself to do it.

"That was before I faked your death," she tells him. "Before they found out I'm quite capable of lying on the record and doctoring files. Before I was officially investigated by MI6. If I'm found to have allowed you in here then any results might be compromised and I know you don't want that. Noor's counting on us. So please-" She nods to the other side of the room- "Step back. Over there. I'll let you know when I'm done."

She returns her attention to the corpse as he moves to the spot she indicated.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she murmurs, so quietly he barely hears.

And that's how they conduct the rest of his visit. Him throwing out the occasional query from the other side of the room while both of their coffees cool and remain undrunk. Her not really offering any information besides that he asks for, an arrangement which should be wonderfully uncomplicated but feels very unsatisfactory indeed. The autopsy process moves along far more quickly than it normally does without Molly stopping to answer his questions every two seconds; Sherlock just makes suggestions, runs a couple of his own experiments (though none on the body) and generally tries not to get under the young pathologist's feet. _It __**should **__be fine, but it is, demonstrably, not. _The hours pass pleasantly enough though, even if he can't help the feeling that something isn't right about the entire endeavour-

Hours later, after they're finished, he sees Molly hop into a midnight blue Audi.

As it drives off Sherlock swears he sees her staring at him through the passenger-seat window, but the car's moving to fast to be sure.


	2. For Words, Like Nature, Half Reveal

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. _

**FOR WORDS, LIKE NATURE, HALF REVEAL**

The second time it happens, there are other witnesses.

It's Mrs. Hudson's birthday and she's having a party. Just a small get-together, close friends and family only- _Though Sherlock can't help but note that Mr. Ramidarthy, the widowed owner of the curry-house two streets away, has also been invited and he doesn't qualify on either count. _Sherlock's wary of going on his own but his former landlady tells him he'll come and that's an end to it.

"I didn't get you back to never see you," she tells him. "So put on a suit, buy me a present, and for God's sake try to behave yourself."

The first half of that order is easy to carry out: As soon as he got back to London he had to completely repopulate his wardrobe (he'd put on too much muscle to fit into anything from his previous life) and so he has numerous suits to choose from. Choosing a present for Mrs. Hudson is likewise not difficult: He buys her a small bottle of something unique from Floris, one of London's finest perfumiers, and has them wrap it. The scent contains the same base notes as all the others she wears, though the higher notes are distinctive. He suspects that she'll love it so much he'll never have to make himself a cup of tea again-

_ A great deal has changed in the last three years, but Sherlock's sense of his own cleverness is something that will never be taken away. _

So by the time he reaches the party he's feeling quite happy with himself. John's going to be there, sans Mary, and he's looking forward to spending time with his best friend without said best friend worrying he'll say something untoward to his wife. Sherlock doesn't know what John's so worried about. Mary's proved herself more than willing to tell him to fuck off when he annoys her and he finds that sort of confidence quite attractive in a woman. _And besides, she's John's __**wife**__; he has some sense of social niceties. _But be that as it may, having time to talk to John without the added pressure of trying not to offend Mary will be a relief. They might even around to discussing a couple of cases which have been bothering Sherlock for days. Somewhat excited by this notion Holmes knocks on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, taking a moment to straighten his suit and check his gift's wrapping-

The door opens, and he sees Molly on the other side of it.

She doesn't look happy to see him.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say hello- _what else is he going to say?_- but before he can she steps aside, motions for him to enter.

"Hello, Sherlock," she says, so quietly he almost doesn't hear it, and then she turns and all but scurries inside, leaving him to shut the door behind him.

Sherlock blinks, surprised, following slowly after her. She's wearing her hair down this time and a miniscule amount of makeup, but other than that he might not have recognised her at all. Again, those jeans and heels and blouses he remembers from his final days living with her are noticeably absent. She's swathed in a hideous pink jumper that looks about four sizes too big for her, a pair of old runners on her feet. And she's at a party, the kind of thing he now knows she likes dressing up for, so he can't imagine why she hasn't even tried to do so. _He once watched Molly Hooper spend four hours doing her hair for a girls' night out._ And if that wasn't enough there was that slightly panicked look on her face when she saw him. As if she hadn't expected him and was afraid he was going to attack her or something-

Sherlock follows her into the living room, feeling slightly dazed. So dazed, in fact, that he doesn't notice John until he walks right into him.

He looks down at his friend, opens his mouth to apologise, and in that moment he realises that John has noticed it too.

It's in the way his eyes dart from Sherlock to Molly and then back again. Holmes gives a tiny nod, indicating that he knows what John means. Without waiting for a spoken explanation the doctor grabs his elbow and marches him off to the kitchen, not even allowing Sherlock to present Mrs. Hudson with her gift though the older woman seems to be too busy chatting to Gregg Lestrade to notice his arrival. As soon as they're inside John closes the door, leans against it. It's old, divided into panels of smoky, browned glass and it will do bugger all to muffle the sound of their conversation to those outside- _Which Sherlock suspects may get a little loud. _John must know that too because he marches to the back of the kitchen, as far from the door as possible. Sherlock follows, pulls out a cigarette and leans near the open back window so that he has a cover if anyone asks what he and John are doing hiding in here. John cocks an eyebrow at him: Clearly, his friend thinks as little of his taking up smoking again as Mycroft had done.

"So you've seen," John begins without preamble.

"If you mean Molly, then yes."

John crosses his arms. "And what are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock frowns. "What do you mean? You surely don't think that Molly's fashion choices are any of my concern?"

John rolls his eyes heavenward in a gesture which Sherlock long ago learned means _Christ, give me patience. _The expression makes him feel slightly nostalgic, and normally the only thing that does that is visiting crime scenes. "I'm not suggesting you tell her how to dress, Sherlock," Watson says testily. "I'm suggesting you apologise for whatever you said about her appearance that prompted that…"

And he sweeps his hand towards the living room, indicating that hideous pink jumper, probably.

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow. "Why do you presume I had anything to do with this?" he demands. "I assure you, I have said nothing insulting about Molly's appearance in more than a year. Before the Noor Almasi case, I hadn't even seen her in six months. And when I did, she was like this. Which is to say, the way she's always looked." He narrows his eyes. "I thought you'd noticed it too; That's why you dragged me in here-"

John shakes his head. "Of course I noticed it: She and Mary are practically best friends at this stage. Who do you think took her out shopping for all those new clothes?" He rakes a hand through his hair. "But I thought she was making progress, I thought she was getting over you…" For some reason Sherlock won't investigate something… _twinges _most peculiarly in his chest. "She'd started going out, seeing other people," John is saying. "Mary set her up with a bloke and she seemed happy enough-"

"What bloke?"

Sherlock suspects he's scowling. Mainly because he is. But he'd have noticed if there was a "bloke," in Molly's life, surely?

_ Or better yet, she'd have told him. _

John looks at him like he'd worried for his mental health. "Her boyfriend, Ollie," he says, in a tone which suggests he's explaining something very complicated to someone very thick. "Surely you've seen him with her? Blond haired, about ye tall, built like a brick shit-house?" Sherlock shakes his head. "He's an old friend of Mary's, works in a private heart clinic out in St. John's Wood," John tells him. "Decent bloke, if I do say so myself. And not a bad rugby player, either."

This time Sherlock's sure he's scowling. "Well if she's found herself some strapping, decent, rugby-playing heart surgeon then why the Hell is she dressing like that?" he asks tartly. "Surely she'd be trying to look more attractive, not less."

John opens his mouth to snap back and answer and then closes it. "That's a good question," he says in a tone which suggests he's highly aggrieved at having to admit such a thing aloud. "I'd assumed that you said something terrible about her new clothes and that's why she stopped wearing them. But now you mention it, why would she do that? She lived with you all that time, and she didn't stop wearing them. And now she has someone to tell her she looks pretty, she doesn't need to rely on a great ponce like you-"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says dryly.

Watson shrugs, unrepentant. "Someone has to call you on your shite, mate," he says. His expression turns thoughtful. "But that doesn't answer the question: if it wasn't you making her doubt herself then what's going on here?"

Sherlock crosses his arms. "Is the "great ponce," entitled to voice an opinion now?" John nods absently. "Good. Then I'll ask you a better question: Why is she suddenly jumping every time she sees me?"

This time Watson's eyes narrow. It's obvious Sherlock's said something he really doesn't like. He once told him that he thought of Molly like a little sister, and Holmes guesses that's the reaction he's seeing now.

"She seems nervous?" he asks, and the detective nods, testily.

"She practically ordered me out of the morgue the last time I was there," Sherlock says. "She wouldn't let me stand close to her- In fact, she made me step away." He frowns, replaying the moment in his mind. Again, he feels that peculiar twinge within. "And just now, when she opened the door to me, she looked…" It clicks in his head. He hadn't seen it because he'd thought it couldn't possibly be true. But hadn't looked panicked, she'd looked scared. Of him.

She'd looked _frightened_ of him.

_ And_ _Sherlock didn't care who she was going out with or what was going on with her, he wasn't bloody having __**that. **_

"What is it?" John demands. "I know it's something: You've got your Bond villain face on."

"I've got my Vatican cameos face on, if you must know." He shakes his head. "And I rather think I'll be wearing it for a while."

Because Sherlock's trying to rein in his temper now, trying to push away a wave of annoyance at himself for not seeing this before. He has blind spots, he knows: Moriarty demonstrated that to him. _John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade_. These are people for whom his emotions sometimes get in the way. These are his pressure-points, his weaknesses. But it hadn't occurred to him to add Molly to that list.

_ She's never seemed a weakness to him_.

And yet, if he hadn't been able to characterise something as basic as fear in her reactions to him, how blind was he? Of all the emotions save anger, fear was by far the easiest one to read. And that's not even factoring in why she might be afraid of him. He practically lived in her house for eight months without any unruly incidents: After the first few weeks the nerves wore off and Molly treated him as she would any other house-guest. _It had been a great relief. _And that being the case, Sherlock had assumed that she knew he'd never willingly hurt her. After the debacle of the Christmas party he'd even made a conscious effort to be polite to her and he thought she'd correctly gauged his desire not to offend-

_ But if she's not afraid he's going to be nasty to her_, he thinks, _then what is she afraid of?_

An image pops into his mind, a dark-haired young man, small and unprepossessing and absolutely lethal, carving IOU into a red apple.

Sherlock rejects the notion out of hand- it's preposterous- but something about that image nags at him.

If he believed in such claptrap notions he'd almost call it intuition, but intuition is the name lazy detectives give their inability to understand their own methods.

"Sherlock," John's calling. "Sherlock, come back from the mother-ship and fill me in here." He leans back against the sink, shoots his friend a searching look. "What do you think is going on?"

Sherlock straightens up. "I don't know." He's gotten a great deal better at saying that in the last year, but he'll never become comfortable with it. His pride won't let him. "I don't know what's going on with her, I just know I'm going to find out."

John holds up both hands placatingly. "Easy there, Lois Lane," he says. "Don't you think I'd better ask her?" Sherlock looks at him in disbelief. Again, John rolls his eyes. "What with my never having deduced her, bullied her or told her that her mouth was too small when I was trying to manipulate her into doing something for me." He shrugs. "Besides, I'm the one who's good with women."

Holmes narrows his eyes. "I'll tell Mary you said that."

John makes a show of shrugging again. "And I'll tell her you're the reason Molly's not wearing that bloody expensive party dress she talked her into buying for today in the sales. See how that goes down."

"Touché."

John smiles. "Bloody right. Now give me ten minutes, I'll find out what's up with her." He nods to himself with certainty. "And if I have to, I'll give the bugger who's bothering her a piece of my mind."

Sherlock snorts. "Better make sure it's a small one."

John's grin widens. "Some of us have more going for us than brains, mate."

And with that they head out of the kitchen, both set in their purpose and sure. But when they come out they find Molly gone and nobody knows where she ran off to, just that it was some sort of domestic emergency.

Sherlock gives Mrs. Hudson her gift and tries to enjoy the party, but he can't help feeling that something important is missing- And by the looks of things, John feels the same.


	3. But There Are Other Griefs Within

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for the reviews and messages go to crooney83, N, Emmapocalypse and readxme. Feedback is always appreciated. _

**BUT THERE ARE OTHER GRIEFS WITHIN**

Sherlock doesn't see Molly again for another four months, and in all that time neither he, John nor Mary find out what's wrong with her.

Oh, they try: John by dropping into the morgue for a friendly chat when Mary's in for a consultation. Mary by going the more traditional route of appearing on Molly's doorstep with a bottle of wine, a bag of DVDs and enough Indian food to feed a starving family of ten. Sherlock calls into the morgue whenever and how often he pleases but it does absolutely no good; Molly manages to duck every attempt at talking to her in private, John by telling him that she has a delicate autopsy that she needs to work on without distraction, Mary by telling her that Ollie had picked that very night to make a romantic meal for two and she's so sorry but would Mary mind doing this another evening?

Sherlock, Molly doesn't even give the opportunity to duck to.

She just ignores him whenever he comes to the morgue unless it's on official business, and even then she won't let him in unless a member of the Met is with him.

So the months go by and nobody talks to her. Every time they try she has a new excuse, and what with the problems with her health- she's been absent four times in the last few months alone- there's not a lot of opportunity to pin her down. At first Sherlock is merely interested in her change in attitude. After all, one would think a woman who'd lie for you, procure a corpse for you and risk the wrath of a massive criminal organisation just so you could fake your death would be a little less willing to stop spending time with you once you could be seen in public with her again. He knows he's made her nervous over the years, but he had thought his time hiding out at her flat had cured them both of their mutual tendency to put their foot in it around one another. _In fact, he would have thought that he and Molly Hooper had become… friends. _But clearly he was mistaken, he thinks testily, since these days she appears to be allergic to him-

If, however, Molly thinks he's going to give up on her just because she's ducking him then she clearly doesn't know him very well.

Mycroft, every teacher who ever taught him at Harrow (before he was kicked out) and every DI he's worked with besides Lestrade could have told her that _that _plan simplywasn't going to work.

So one day he sneaks into the morgue in St. Bart's without telling her. Just puts on a hi-vis' jacket and a stolen police cap and waltzes right in the door. Since he's being covert, he decides to come in the back, the better to observe her working before she realises he's there: He appreciates that this is apparently "creepy," (Mary's words) but he doesn't really see what the problem is. _It's not like he's bloody sneaking in to watch Molly change. _The layout of the morgue is simple: There's the lab/body room where the corpses are kept on their slabs, a small back office partitioned into three for admin (though the pokiness of the rooms means that most of the pathologists sit in the main space to write up their reports) and then there's the tiny toilets and changing area, where everyone has their work lockers and keeps their things. It's this that he walks through (unlocked fire-exits are a Godsend for anyone in his business), smiling to himself at the thought of finally getting to talk to Molly.

_Because whatever happens_, he thinks, _he's going to get to the bottom of this today_.

He moves quietly from the locker-room to the admin area, watching for other people as he goes. It's quiet- _Stamford's on his lunch_- and there's nobody to distract Molly from him and their long-overdue conversation. He can see her now, leaning over a body and examining its neck. As he gets closer Sherlock realises the corpse is that of a woman, mid to late seventies with iron-white hair. She's been beaten badly about the face and shoulders, her nose cartilage clearly broken ante-mortem. Molly frowns at what she sees, leaning downwards. Her lab-coat hangs loosely off her- _she's lost weight since last he saw her-_ and she's wearing only a long-sleeved tee-shirt, her hair messily tied back off her face. As she moves to get a closer look at the subject's neck both the lab coat and tee shift, exposing a sliver of one pale shoulder-blade and a worn, black bra strap-

And suddenly Sherlock's staring, riveted, at the young pathologist.

Because there, on her neck and shoulders, unaccountably, _unarguably, _Molly Hooper sports an angry, mottled, yellowing-to-purple bruise.

Sherlock has seen plenty of physical injuries before. He's studied their effects, made sure too that he's familiar with any medical issues within his circle of friends which might explain the presence of contusions or other injuries. But Molly Hooper, he happens to know, does not suffer from any of them. And besides, the injury he's looking at was clearly caused by a hand. A large, long-fingered, more than likely _male _hand. The pattern of bruising is quite distinctive, blue-black smudges arrayed in the unmistakable shape of fingers. Darker marks at the outward radius where nails had gripped her skin and dragged her bodily.

_ This had not been a playful little tussle, _he thinks darkly.

_ This had… This had been the sort of thing which would have __**hurt**__. _

Sherlock can feel the beginnings of anger- _no, rage_- mounting within him. Just as it had when Moriarty threatened his friends, just as it had when Neilson and his men harmed Mrs. Hudson. Because the placement of that bruise, he knows, is not accidental. It's too unusual, too easily hidden by both clothing and Molly's hair. _Somebody made that mark on Molly_, he thinks, _and they didn't want anyone to see it_. If an injury like that had happened accidentally then he would have heard about it. She would have missed work and the reason given would have been injury, not flu as her last four reported illnesses had been. And had Molly been in some sort of fight then he would know about it too: Lestrade would make sure to tell John even if he still hadn't forgiven Sherlock enough to tell him. Because the people he cared about were a group, a family of sorts. A unit. Molly was one of their members and they looked after one another- _At least, they looked after one another if given the bloody chance._ And they protected one another if given the chance too, a fact which Sherlock suspected the person who hurt Molly would soon find out to his cost.

_ Molly gave him his life back, she saved him. _

_ The least he could do was make sure that she was not hurt. _

Holmes knows that he shouldn't do what he does next. He knows that there could be a reasonable explanation, though he doubts it. Just as he knows he should bring his worries to someone- possibly Mary- and ask her to test the waters with Molly. _Because Christ knows if he tries it he'll probably muck it up. _But though he knows that he still finds his feet propelling him forwards. He marches into the morgue as self-righteously as a priest into a pulpit, stealth forgotten, and as he does so he sees Molly look up from her cadaver. She blinks in surprise- for a moment he doesn't think she recognises him- and then he sees the familiar, shuttered look go through her eyes as she realises who he is.

She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "I told you, you're not supposed to be in here, Sherlock," she says. "I know you think sneaking in is funny but I don't-"

Sherlock plants himself in front of her, glares down at her. He realises that he's probably intimidating her but he can't really bring himself to move back.

"What happened to your shoulder?" he says instead, ignoring her chiding. Her eyes widen.

"You're not- Nothing happened to my shoulder." She's babbling and it's a bloody long time since she's done that around him. "I just… I just fell at home. Hit my shoulder-blade off the doorknob to the downstairs loo. You remember how awkward that handle is-"

Sherlock makes an impatient motion with his hands. "Don't forget who I am, Molly," he says curtly. "The bruise on your shoulder was made by fingers. I can clearly see the pattern they made, and I can probably extrapolate how large the person's hand was. I'm guessing, judging by the size, that it was a large, heavy-set man. Now, if it was an unknown assailant- which is unlikely, since you wouldn't lie for a stranger- then we can use that to start tracking him down. If it was someone you know, I can still use that hand-print to start looking. I'll just call Lestrade and-"

"No!" She snaps it at him and it's so loud and so frightened and so desperate that this time it's Sherlock's turn to blink. "It was an accident," she says, more quietly. "Ollie didn't- I fell and he was helping me up."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her. "He was helping you up by the scruff of the neck?" he asks harshly.

_ Manhandling a woman should not come so easily to any man, _he thinks.

Redness is starting to come to her cheeks, her gaze sliding from his. Embarrassment, then, rather than anger. "I was drunk," she says. "Couldn't get my legs to stay under me-"

This Sherlock finds hard to believe. Molly knows her limits, she doesn't often drink enough to become unsteady on her feet, let alone lose control of her body. "He still shouldn't have picked you up like that," he says. "You're a small woman: a fireman's hold would have been far more logical-"

Her eyes harden. _Ah, anger: There you are. _"We're not all as logical as you," she says. Her hands ball into fists as she says it, and this Sherlock finds inexplicable.

_ Why on Earth would she be irritated with him?_

"It's not about being logical," he snaps back, "it's about making sure you're not hurt. Even if you weren't able to stand, he shouldn't have picked you up like that."

He gestures to her neck and she flinches back a little. Though he knows that she's probably just wary of having anyone touch the injury, Sherlock still feels a flash of hurt at her withdrawal and that, he knows, makes no sense at all.

"Look, Mr. Holmes," Molly says, and this time she's biting out the words, "this is none of your business. I'm none of your business, not any more. So you can just take your smugness and your insinuations and your big, flowy coat and bugger off, alright? Have you got that?"

And with that she turns on her heel and marches out of the lab before he can say anything else to her. Sherlock hears the outer doors to the morgue slam and he can't think of a single thing to make her come back in. So he pulls out his phone and talks to John, and after that he has his first full-tar cigarette in more than a year, leaning against the gates of Postman's Park. He feels… He feels slightly dizzy.

He goes home to Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson waiting in his rooms for him, and from there on his day just gets progressively worse.


	4. I Do But Sing Because I Must

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to razzle-dazzle1606, Crimson and Chrome 42, Hana, Emmapocalypse and koryandrs: Cheers lads. And now, on with the story... _

**I DO BUT SING BECAUSE I MUST**

Sherlock doesn't really remember the first time he met Mrs. Hudson.

He thinks that he was nineteen or maybe twenty, in the first blush of those wandering years between getting turfed out of Oxford and over-dosing in Camden. Everything a blur, a new set of experiences for him to try. _A new set of grownup trials for him to screw up. _He used to use a dealer called Caspian who lived a couple of doors down from 221B, the elder brother of a university friend. Caspian sold the strongest, cleanest, most organic drugs in Central London to boys like himself and girls like his girlfriend, relieving his university chums of the need to go into the nastier parts of the city in order to score and simultaneously keeping himself in the sort of style to which his Daddy's money had allowed him to become accustomed.

_ It was, he liked to tell everyone, a win-win situation. _

Sherlock didn't like Caspian, or his girlfriend Portia, but he did like knowing his drugs weren't cut with anything dangerous. He was not yet at that stage of addiction where the desire for oblivion had morphed into the desire for self-annihilation, and drugs like those Caspian sold meant he could stay reasonably safe. So he'd come around maybe twice a week with a pocketful of money and sit on the steps of 221B, waiting for Caspian to come out to him. It was far more dangerous doing a deal in the open but Portia- the girlfriend- refused to have Sherlock in the house ever since the night he drunkenly offered to suck her boyfriend off if he knocked something off the price of his order. (_Sherlock didn't know what she was so upset about; he was hardly the first one to offer_.) But be that as it may, Portia was dead set against him with a hardness of heart which would have done Queen Victoria proud. And so Holmes sat on the steps of a house he didn't know and waited for his friendly, neighbourhood drug-dealer, trying his best not to look suspicious.

And since he usually sat on the steps of her house, unsurprisingly, he ended up running into Mrs. Hudson quite a lot. Ended up talking to her too.

He wasn't yet living on the streets at that point and his clean clothes and upper-class accent put her at her ease enough that she didn't chase him off her step. And so an entente of sorts began. A truce. But as the months went by, he began to notice certain things about her. Even through the blur of being perpetually stoned he saw that her appearance changed quite radically, that sometimes she wore elegant, dressy clothes and sometimes she came out swathed in more fabric than a mummy. She also wore sunglasses a lot, despite the fact that winter in London is seldom sunny, and she seemed accident-prone, if the amount of bruises he saw on her were any indication. At first this had confused him: Were he to see her today, Sherlock would have known within minutes of meeting her that she was being physically abused by her husband. The signs were all there; it was practically text-book. But he was young and she was proud and they never talked about it. He was just The Boy On The Step and she was just The Nice Lady Who Smiled At Him. They had no other connection than that, nothing else in common.

And then, after a more than two years of this arrangement, he discovered that Mr. Hudson was on trial for murdering a young woman in Florida.

He found out because he overheard her in the hall, talking to someone on the telephone through a door she hadn't locked properly, and she sounded absolutely terrified that her husband would escape the charges and come back to her.

By that time Sherlock' addiction had turned more serious, the weight falling off him, his contact with the real world becoming ever more tenuous. He was waking up in strange beds with strange people and even stranger bruises, and he'd lost all contact with Mycroft, though his brother continued to deposit money in his account every week. Sherlock knew he was falling, losing himself to the substances he took. They no longer dulled his mind but dulled his senses, and he found himself waking up some days wondering whether he was alive at all. But something about the idea that The Nice Lady Who Smiled At Him might need his help seemed to cut through the fog of his dependence. The skills he'd polished all through his teenaged years, the skills which had made him such an outcast in university, those skills could, he knew, rescue The Nice Lady Who Smiled At Him. And so he'd haltingly introduced himself and offered to help ensure her husband's conviction. She'd been nervous but not frightened, and while it had been obvious that she didn't believe him, she'd still offered to buy him a cup of tea in Speedy's, and maybe a sandwich, a ritual which had eventually become weekly until Sherlock finally kicked his habit once and for all. And he _had_ managed to ensure her husband was convicted of the murder, his first proper case working with Gregg Lestrade, the case which convinced him he could be something besides his need for stimulation-

He thinks of all this as he sits in his front room now, Mrs. Hudson fiddling in her lap with the long sleeves of her top.

He thinks it and he remembers her bruises and he thinks about the one he saw on Molly Hooper today, and it doesn't happen very often but Sherlock realises that he'd really, really, _really _like to shoot something Right. The Hell. Now.

"You talked to John," he says then, because really, why else would she be here?

He came in to find her already in the flat, pouring herself a cup of tea.

The older woman nods, her eyes going anywhere but his. He hasn't seen her look this nervous since her husband's execution and despite himself he feels an unaccountable flash of annoyance at it. _Doesn't she know she has nothing to fear from him? _

The memory of Molly's reaction today flashes behind his eyes and he forces the thought away.

She must see his irritation though because she seems to pull herself together, gestures for him to sit. She's brought a plate of biscuits out- bourbon crèmes- and if she's eating those then she really is nervous.

_ But then, given what Sherlock suspects they're about to talk about, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. _

"John called and told me what you think's happening," she says then, taking a biscuit and dipping it into her tea. _Another nervous habit. "_He says- He says you think someone's hurting our Molly."

"Somebody is." Realising that there's no way he can get out of this conversation without being so unspeakably rude even _he'd _feel ashamed of himself, Sherlock nods and folds his lanky frame into the chair opposite her. He takes a biscuit and waits while she pours him a cup, chewing thoughtfully until the tea is ready.

"Is it that Ollie?" Mrs. Hudson asks, and her hands shake ever so slightly as she says it. The colour in her cheeks turning high even as the rest of her skin pales. It doesn't happen often, but just for a moment Sherlock feels tempted to… comfort her somehow.

He sighs though. _He's really not built for that sort of thing. _

"I think so. Statistically speaking, it's more than likely her domestic partner." He grimaces. "You of all people know that."

She nods. "And do you think- How far along is it?" She clears her throat and makes a show of staring into her teacup, taking a bite of her biscuit. "I mean- Do you- Do you think he's…"

"I know he's grabbed her by the throat," Sherlock says curtly. "I suspect he's done more- Now that I think about it, the amount of time she's spent out of work is suspicious. She was healthy as a horse when I lived with her; she never called in sick. But these last few months…"

Mrs. Hudson nods again. "And the way she acts around you and John now," she says softly. "I think- I think he's probably told her to stay away from you two. You especially, Sherlock." Something hard and angry twists her lip. "Men like him don't like the notion of competition."

Sherlock snorts. "I'm hardly competition. If Ollie's insecure enough to believe that then he's an idiot." He shakes his head at himself. "Though he's not the only one. I can't believe I didn't see this-"

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson doesn't often use that brusque, no-nonsense tone, but she's using it now. It always makes Sherlock feel… mothered.

_ He'll never admit how much he likes that. _

"You know you couldn't have guessed this," the older woman is saying. "_I _didn't see it, and I of all of you should have known. But I always thought Molly so sensible- except for her little crush on you- and she seemed so genuinely happy in the beginning. I didn't want to spoil it, and just because something horrible happened to me doesn't mean it will happen to everyone, you know?" She shakes her head to herself, plops her cup down into her saucer slightly harder than she strictly needs to. Again her mouth twists into that angry, hard line. "I should have seen this," she's muttering, "I really should have seen this…"

She sighs. "But I didn't. Nobody did. And all we can do is try to help Molly _now_."

_And for the first time in a long time, Mrs. Hudson looks old. _

Sherlock nods, rather than ponder that. _He really doesn't like contemplating his landlady's progressing age. _"Of course," he says instead. "I take it Molly can stay here if she needs to?" Mrs. Hudson looks almost affronted that he'd felt he had to ask. "Good. Then I'm going to go to Scotland Yard tomorrow and ask Lestrade to look into this Ollie. I'll need any info I can get my hands on, but I suspect the new Mrs. Watson will be more than forthcoming with that. And I'm going to talk to Sally Donovan about the best way to build a case-"

Mrs. Hudson's expression shows a twinge of disgust. "Why on Earth would you talk to that nasty Donovan?" she asks. "Didn't she and that Anderson get you into trouble before you faked your death?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Sally did three years with a Community Safety Unit in Brixton," he points out. "If anyone would know how to build a case, she would. Can't afford to hold what she did against her if she's going to help Molly now."

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him, a warm, proud smile, and just for a moment Sherlock is The Boy On The Step again, having someone be nice to him for the first time in what seems like a lifetime. _It's a surprisingly satisfying feeling_.

"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," she says quietly. "A very good man."

"Thank you. I-I hope that will be enough." Sherlock looks down at his biscuit, not entirely certain how to respond beyond that. Knowing only that Mrs. Hudson's words make him feel better than he has since Molly stopped talking to him. So he swallows his pride and calls Lestrade that very night, gets Donovan's number and calls her-

He thinks this will be the beginning of the end for this case.

But as Sherlock soon finds out, his troubles have just begun.


	5. By Faith, And Faith Alone, Embrace

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to megsterleigh, Reina434, Crimson and Chrome 42, razzle-dazzle1606 and : You're making this much easier, ladies. And so, on with the story. _

**BY FAITH AND FAITH ALONE EMBRACE**

"Hey, freak."

Those are the first words Donovan says to him when he enters the incident room in Belgravia, and Sherlock doubts that anything more friendly will pass her lips while he's in her company. But while he may be tempted to deduce her- she and Anderson are clearly on the outs, judging by the defiantly dressy outfit she's chosen for today and the fact that there's a man's phone number written on her hand- he manages to rein himself in.

_ No good can come from teasing her, and he really would like her help. _

So instead of saying anything he simply nods to her, places a paper coffee cup in front of her. It's her favourite- a flat white with an extra shot- and he silently thanks John once again for convincing him that bringing coffee anywhere there are policemen from whom he might want information is a capital notion. _If you're going to try and bribe them, Sherlock_, his friend had told him, _then be honest about it and give them something they might actually **want**-_

Donovan stares at the cup as if it might be poison and Sherlock wonders whether John had factored Sally into that equation however.

After a moment she gives a majestically long-suffering sniff though and deigns to take a sip.

Sherlock sees her eyes widen in surprise, then pleasure, that he got her order right. "Alright, I _might_ give you what you're looking for," she says warily, eyeing him. She gestures to the chair before her and Sherlock folds himself into it. "Go ahead, freak, tell me what you want."

Sherlock doesn't bother asking her to drop the insulting nickname. He knows that the request would be pointless, just as he knows that he has often been less than polite to the young policewoman, and so probably deserves it. Instead he leans in closer, trying to keep his voice down. She's on loan from Lestrade's squad to the murder team in Belgravia and it's the only reason he would consider discussing Molly out loud here: Nobody in this room will know who he's talking about. "I have a friend-" he begins.

Donovan snorts. "Is this friend named Con Dotson? Or is it Sheerluck Gnomes?"

Again, Sherlock reminds himself not to get snappish. "This friend is a woman," he says stiffly. "A… special woman." He clears his throat, surprised, at how difficult he finds it to say the next words. "I believe- I believe that someone is harming her.

And I believe that you may be able to give me some advice in stopping it."

Donovan goes very still at that. She directs her next question to her coffee cup. "Why?" she asks. Her expression has twisted most peculiarly, almost like that question caused her physical pain. "Are you asking me because you think I owe you over the Richard Brooke thing?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. I'm asking your advice because you survived the Brixton Community Safety Unit for three years before you joined Lestrade's team," he tells her. "You had their highest rate for closing cases- In fact, your track record hasn't been bettered yet- And domestic abuse cases are often very difficult to prosecute. That makes you the closest thing I'm going to find to an expert, and if I'm going to help Mo- my friend, then I'm going to _need _an expert-"

Again Sally snorts, but this time there's an angry, hard edge to it.

"That's a nice bit of sentiment, freak."

Without warning Sally gets to her feet, sweeping her leather jacket up with one hand even as she reaches down and picks up her coffee cup. She's turned decidedly pale, her eyes downcast and he can read pain, anger, in her expression. Suddenly her body has gone tight with stress. He opens his mouth to ask what's wrong but she silences him with a look. "Let's take a walk," she says sharply. "You can bring your coffee."

She leans down and practically whispers the next part.

"You don't want to have this conversation in here."

And, Sherlock in tow, she makes her way out of the building, nodding and smiling pleasantly to just about everyone. While he normally only sees the tart, angry side of Donovan, it occurs to him that she appears to be a well-liked member of her team. _How did he miss that? _But before he an ponder it she's led him across the road to the corner, coffee cup still in hand. "Take out a smoke and light up," she mutters from behind the drink. "It'll make you look less suspicious."

Sherlock nods. "Alright. But I'm not sure why we're having this conversation out here-"

"Because Molly Hooper hasn't pressed charges against anyone and you don't want her name being mentioned in there in relation to domestic abuse allegations," Sally snaps. She stares at him over the rim of her cup as his eyebrows threaten to migrate beyond his widow's peak in surprise. "Yes, I guessed. Wasn't difficult. You know, for a "proper genius," you really aren't the sharpest sometimes."

Sherlock summons his archest stare. "I never said it was Molly."

Sally shoots him an epically unimpressed look. "And who else is it going to be?"

He scowls. "Fine. So it is Molly. Is that why you're being so belligerent?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm being belligerent because the way I see it, this could be one of two things. Either you're pissed off at her over something- probably for not paying attention to you now she has a boyfriend- and you're looking to make trouble." Sherlock opens his mouth to start lecturing her but she rushes on. "Or else, she _is_ in trouble but she isn't ready to press charges against the bastard yet.

And believe me, if that's why you're here then we have a problem."

Sherlock can feel his expression turning mulish. "Do you honestly think I can't gather enough evidence?"

Sally gives an annoyed, long-suffering growl. "It's not about the evidence," she bites out. "And it's certainly not about you. It's about whether the woman who's being hurt is ready to get out of the situation she's in. It's about whether she's gotten the git who's abusing her out of her system, her brain, her heart." She shakes her head. "Women stay. They go back. Don't bloody ask me why, but they do- I've seen it. I've gotten to watch it play out more times than I can count and I don't want to watch it again, it's why I left Brixton."

She leans into Sherlock, punctuating each sentence as if it were a minor blow.

"I know you," she says. "You want to dart in there like Lancelot on a white horse and save the damsel. Run away again once it's done, certain that everything will be fine. _But it won't be fine, Sherlock. _It _can't_ be fine. If a woman's with an abusive partner then she needs to _want_ to leave. She has to have faith and hope and a support network, not to mention balls of solid brass. And you coming here, telling me this about someone I'd consider a friend when she's not ready to save herself yet is cruel and unhelpful and more than a bit not good, ok?"

She stares at him challengingly, brown eyes to blue ones. Puffs out an angry breath.

For the first time in their long acquaintance, Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually, not really sure what else would be satisfactory. He can see he's upset Donovan, and he honestly didn't mean to do so.

_ But how could he know what he knows and not say anything?_

The policewoman sighs. "I know that, fre- Sherlock." She smiles, this wan, tired thing that makes her look uncannily like Lestrade. It takes some of the sting from her next words. "And I know you think you're helping, but this isn't what Molly needs. What she needs is to get ready to press charges. What she needs is to know she has people who'll help her, who'll stand by her for the long haul, even if she does things they don't agree with. Even if she can't make herself leave for good the first time, or the third, or the fifth. Even if she still loves the bastard after he breaks her arm, or her jaw, or her nose."

And Donovan looks away, suddenly, her expression intent, as if she's seeing another time and place entirely.

Sherlock wisely holds his peace.

"This isn't a quick fix," she says eventually. "This isn't going to be easy. And as you're fond of pointing out, you're a higher-functioning sociopath: you're not meeting anyone's definition of cuddly or concerned." She fixes him with a look he suspects Anderson runs in living terror of. But for Molly's sake he doesn't let it faze him. "So are you in this for the long haul?" she asks him. "Are you going to lose interest once there's no more exciting evidence to piece together, no more hero to play?"

Sherlock nods once, his face hard with certainty.

"Molly is my friend," he says quietly. "I'll do what she needs me to, no matter what."

Donovan lets out another wan, tired smile then. For a moment she looks years younger than she is. "Then I'll tell you what I tell all the other families, and I'll make a couple of calls," she says. "I'll see what I can find on this bastard- on the quiet, of course."

She leans in close to him, her voice like granite.

Again Sherlock is reminded that Anderson probably lives in fear of her ire.

"And once I've prepped, you, you are going to talk to Molly Hooper and not be an arsehole," she says, tartly. "You are going to tell her that she has friends and a place to go and that she doesn't have to put up with this- And if we're very, very lucky she might already be halfway to thinking she ought to leave the git by now. But even if she's not, you're not abandoning her. Understand?"

Sherlock nods stiffly. "Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful, Sergeant Donovan. I'll... I'll make sure she understands that she is not alone."

Sally snorts. Rolls her eyes. She knocks back her coffee. "All these years trying not to help you," she snickers. "and I finally break my track record."

Sherlock makes certain to squeeze her shoulder, putting as much emotion as he dares into the gesture. "Cheer up," he says wryly. "You're not helping _me_. You're helping someone much nicer."

And at that Sally Donovan actually laughs.

"That's not saying much," she tells him, and Sherlock finds he has to agree.


	6. Thy Roots Are Wrapped About With Bones

_**Disclaimer**__: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And can I just say thanks for their reviews to Katya Jade, Crimson and Chrome 42, Rosie 8, razzle-dazzle1606 and my mystery guest for their reviews. And so, on with the story..._

**THY ROOTS ARE WRAPPED ABOUT WITH BONES**

The next couple of months go by in a blur.

Donovan is as good as her word, giving Sherlock as much information as she can. Not only about Ollie (real name, Oliver James Hough, real criminal record, several counts of assault as a juvenile) but on how to deal with a loved one you suspect of being abused. The rules are pretty simple apparently: _Don't be an arsehole. _

_ And please try to remember Sherlock that it's not about you, it's about Molly. _

She also gives him lists of names, bodies within the Met who can help Hooper press charges. Charities who work with victims of domestic violence, who can tell him what to expect and what (he hopes) not to say or do. There are psychologists to speak to, former colleagues of Sally's from the Brixton Community Safety Unit to meet with. There are safety lists to formulate and escape plans to be devised. There is Mycroft to be cornered, moneyswhich were to be made available to Molly during his Fall but which mysteriously never appeared to be found and redistributed-

John and Mary are advised of the situation. Mrs. Hudson is kept in the loop.

It really should be tremendously tedious, but it isn't.

_ There's no mystery here, no puzzle, and yet Sherlock can feel this case devour his attention in a way few others have. _

What Sally cannot do however- _what nobody can_- is explain how to deal with knowing that someone he cares about is being harmed repeatedly. He hears about more regular absences from work, strange injuries, and he can tell even Mike Stamford's starting to get suspicious. Molly breaks her collarbone in some sort of freak accident that she can't properly explain; She misses an entire month that time, and people, lots of people including Lestrade, notice she's not there.

It's a mess.

But though he wants to go in and talk to her, Sherlock doubts he'd be welcome after last time. And he's afraid that his presence, if discovered, will just cause another attack. He rarely lets himself think about the sight of Molly's bruised neck, about the fear in her eyes when he saw her at Mrs. Hudson's birthday party, because when he does that he invariably ends up shooting holes in the said Mrs. Hudson's walls- _And Mrs. Turner next door's Married Ones have already complained to the police about __**that**__, so he doesn't think he should press his luck. _But late at night, when he can't smoke, when he can't do drugs, when he hasn't another case to take away his attention and John's all the way on the other side of town with his Mary, then the thoughts of what's happening to Molly kick and snarl and hiss around inside his brain, distracting him. Making him wonder if maybe he shouldn't just do the world a favour and stitch Ollie up for something nice and illegal, which will result in a spectacularly long jail sentence.

He shares this thought once with Donovan, and she grins at him.

"Know that feeling, freak," she says wryly, "But trust me, it's not worth it."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her. "So intent on upholding the law, even for miscreants, Inspector Donovan?"

Sally snorts. "Too worried what'll happen to Molly if she doesn't get him out of her system before we collar the bastard."

Again that look comes into her eyes, as if she's briefly seeing another place and time entirely.

Sherlock wonders which of her old cases she's thinking of, but realises he doesn't want to know.

"She needs to want to leave," she says eventually- _for what feels like the hundredth time._

"And what if she never wants to?" he asks quietly. "What do we do then?"

Sally puts a hand on his shoulder, looks straight at him. "Then we'll still be Molly's friends, and we'll still stand by her." She shakes her head, as if trying to fight off another memory. "That's all any of us can do in the end, mate."

And with that she snaps to, makes a show of looking around her gamely. From the corner of his eye he sees Anderson scowl, looking disgruntled and jealous, and he finds himself grinning. "Besides," she continues, "Molly's a bright woman, she'll find her sense of self-preservation, don't worry about it."

And with that she walks back to Lestrade, leaving Sherlock thoughtful and Anderson fuming.

He spots the other man gesticulating wildly in his direction a moment later while Donovan stares him down, her hand (Sherlock swears) twitching towards her night-stick.

Though her words that day were not really soothing, Sherlock holds onto them. And while he plots and plans and cajoles fate to do his bidding, enlisting Mary's aide in making sure that he has regular updates on Molly's well-being, he practices keeping his silence. Tries to make sure that nothing he does will give Ollie any more ammunition to drive Molly away. Eventually though, he has to go and talk to her. He's come up with what he thinks is her best chance of survival, a plan including every safety precaution he can imagine and, Sherlock being Sherlock, he feels has to present it in person.

_ He cannot risk it falling into her boyfriend's hands. _

So he waits until he can be sure Molly's in work and then sneaks into St. Bart's again. This time he pretends to be an orderly, even stealing a wheelchair to prove it. Twining the straps of the rucksack containing his escape pack for Molly around the wheelchair's handle-bars and whistling as he pushes the chair. If anybody in his lift to the basement wonders why a wheelchair would be needed in a morgue, they say nothing. _Sherlock often finds himself wondering just how deeply ingrained English manners are._ But the rest of the hospital's reticence helps him, so he doesn't complain about it.

And when he finally gets into the morgue he finds himself happy to have something to hold onto.

Changes wrought slowly over time are not obvious to those who see a person every day. Let someone _not_ see a person for a couple of months though, as he has not seen Molly, and the differences between who she was and who she is now become obvious. _Stark._ She is thin now, far thinner than he has ever seen her. Her hair is washed and tied back but it looks lank, listless, and he belatedly realises it is because she has made no attempt to style it, probably in weeks. There are dark circles under her eyes, a slight tremor to her hands. Those are almost bony, translucent, and for some reason this annoys Sherlock almost more than anything else. Because Molly Hooper has the finest hands in St. Bart's, the finest hands he's ever worked with, except, perhaps, for John Watson's. Even before his Fall, even before they became friends, he recognised that she had more talent in her fingers than some twice her age.

_ And that fucking bastard Ollie has caused them to develop a tremor. _

_ That fucking bastard Ollie has caused them to lose their steadiness, their strength. Their calm. _

It is probably just as well that the afore-mentioned fucking bastard is not present, because Sherlock strongly suspects his attempt to restore balance to the universe would end up killing the git.

_ And coming up with a way of getting off a murder charge would be tediously annoying, when he obviously has more important things (like Molly) to worry about. _

Molly hums a hello to him as she hears the door open. She doesn't turn to look but chimes a small, "Hey," her bright, welcoming smile noticeably absent. Her eyes on the cadaver she's working on, one foot pressing absently against the opposite calf to scratch. Sherlock parks the wheelchair and pads quietly over to her. He stops a few feet from her- _No crowding her, Sherlock, _he hears Donovan's voice in his ear- and waits for her to look up at him. Lets her set the agenda, when all he really wants to do is shake her until her teeth shake. When she does eventually look up he's smiling, trying to make his body language look non-threatening. _Mary claims it makes him look like a serial-killer but it's the best that he can do_. Molly's eyes widen as she recognises him and instinctively they dart to the exit. Sherlock hates that it's the first thing which occurs to her, but he supposes he's not surprised.

"Hello, Molly," he says evenly, his hands hanging loosely beside him.

She nods but doesn't make a sound, a pulse beating sharply at her throat.

"I know you don't want to talk to me but I brought you a present," he tells her.

And with that he reaches into his rucksack and pulls a manila folder out, identical to those used in the morgue. It even says **FOR MORGUE USE ONLY **in black letters. He holds it out to Molly and she wordlessly takes it. Her eyes don't leave his and he's not sure whether to be flattered or not.

"Don't look at that when Ollie's here," he tells her quietly. "It's not for him. And don't worry, nobody saw me come in here, you're safe-"

He turns to leave, determined to get out before he does or says something stupid and unprofitable. Before he hurts Molly any more than he already has done.

As he does so the morgue doors swing open and Oliver James Hough, abusive partner extraordinaire, walks in, an irritated look on his face.


	7. And In Thy Wisdom Make Me Wise

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to: Renaissencebooklover108, AJP910, razzle-dazzle1606, N, MorbidbyDefault, Rocking the Redhead, Rosie85, Katya Jade and my mystery guest. You're making this a lot easier, ladies. Please be aware there's some swearing in this one. But don't blame Sherlock, blame Ollie Hough, abuser extraordinaire…

**AND IN THY WISDOM MAKE ME WISE**

_ He doesn't look like a monster. _

It's the first thing Sherlock thinks when he lays eyes on Ollie, and he's aware that the thought is asinine. He's seen human devils aplenty in his time hunting Moriarty's network: The most dangerous of his opponents had always looked entirely ordinary, and he's not sure why he expected Oliver Hough to be any different. Even in the photos Sherlock had managed to secure, he always looked run of the mill, bordering on handsome. A face in the crowd, a man like any other. The sort of person you'd feel vaguely reassured about while standing next to him on the Tube. Somehow, in all the months he had been on this case, Sherlock had assumed it takes a special kind of nastiness to harm someone as, well, sweet, as Molly Hooper, and somehow he had thought-**hoped?**-that such viciousness would be obvious when he finally came face to face with the bastard-

But it isn't: the person before him is surprisingly average in the flesh.

Medium height, with hazel eyes and the sort of halfway-decent build you see in professionals who get their exercise twice a week at the gym. Hair, tightly curled and blond, shorn close to his skull. A bespoke, expensive shirt thrown over designer jeans the only indication that this is his day off. Everything about him screams affluence; his watch is a Rolex, the car keys he dangles from his fingers are for an Audi. Even his tan looks designer, the product of time spent sailing rather than occasional sun holidays or, heaven forbid, a tanning bed. He looks normal, respectable, solid. The sort of man a woman might look at and think _husband material, _the sort of trap Molly Hooper might look at and think _sweetheart…_

And it's this thought which enrages Sherlock, more than any other. This thought which sets his hands clenching into fists, his feet carrying him a couple of steps forward before he even realises what he is about. Because this, this _creature_ hides in plain sight, preying on the hopes of women like Molly. Preying on the fact that there are gentle, kind people in the world whom he can bully and abuse to elevate himself. _And he has the bold-faced, idiotic audacity to stand before Sherlock now, as if he has nothing to fear from him- _

For a moment the anger is so great that Holmes can almost imagine this man's bones breaking beneath his hands, imagine it with a visceral delight he hasn't experienced since he finally put Sebastian Moran down. His mind is already brimming with concocted stories for Lestrade, stories that will explain how this moron managed to get himself beaten to within an inch of his life in the only camera blind spot in the entire morgue (the very spot Sherlock's a moment away from pushing him into). It will be so easy to punish him for what he's done to Molly. So easy to make him pay for all the months of pain and helplessness and doubt. Because by the time Sherlock's through with him he'll never even _think _of hurting Molly again, won't even want to go _near_ her-

_ And he'll never let her speak to you again either, _Donovan's voice sounds sharply in his head.

_ He'll have an excuse to keep you away from her; he'll use the fact that she's angry with you over the assault to isolate her more. _

_** Think**__, freak: it's not all about you, it's about her. You can't afford to let yourself do this. _

_ Don't fall into the trap of letting this bastard become a martyr, Sherlock_. _Molly needs you too much to do something as stupid as __**that**__. _

The adrenaline starts to slow as Sherlock lets himself remember Sally's words: They echo what everyone else involved with domestic abuse cases has told him. A moment passes, a breath is taken-

And suddenly, he can see straight again.

The haze of rage begins dissipating, leaving (admittedly cold, angry) calculation in its wake. Yes, he thinks, he can hold himself together enough not to hit this man. Yes, he can figure out a way to make this look like it's his fault and not Molly's, to let her know that he's not angry with her, not going to stop trying to help. In the split second between him taking in Hough and the other man seeing him, Sherlock lets his shoulders drop, makes himself look smaller. He _wants _to stand up (he's taller than Ollie) but he knows he has to keep that sort of posturing to himself for Molly's sake. _And besides, the bastard might see him as an easy target and take a swing, something for which Sherlock will not hesitate to press charges_. So he moves so that he's right in front of the morgue camera (if Ollie's going to attack him, then it's going to be captured on film), keeping equidistant between the other man and Hooper. Letting his face curl into a petulant mask as he eyes the other man up, because, little as he likes to admit it, playing to Hough's ego is probably the best way to handle this.

"So this is him?" he says loudly, watching as recognition steals slowly over Ollie's Designer Neanderthal face. "This is the tosser who's made you think you're too good for me?"

And he makes to sweep across the room with his usual preeminence.

Having a long coat helps immeasurably with that.

Sherlock knows that it's ridiculous, knows too that Molly must be very confused- But it still only takes her a moment to realise what he's doing, and then he sees a brief look of relief enter her eyes.

"Ye-Yes, Sherlock," she says, her voice faint but getting stronger. "This is Ollie, and he's the one I- the one I want." She looks at her boyfriend, holds her hand out to him. He doesn't take it, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He- He was saying he wanted me back, Ols," she tells him. "Says that I should… That I should want him. But I told him-I told him I only want you…"

And she takes the miscreant's hand in hers, wrapping her small fingers around his big, ugly fist. Tries to smile brightly, but it doesn't touch her eyes. The effort is enough, however, the distract Hough from the manila folder Sherlock handed her, which she places unobtrusively among a pile of similar paperwork with her other hand.

_ So, _Sherlock thinks. _Ollie won't be getting a look at __**that **__then. _

The thought brings a tiny surge of warmth to his chest.

He's not finished though: He needs to make sure that the bastard's ego is stroked enough that he won't be suspicious, won't go asking Molly why her old friend the consulting detective was snooping around her lab. And he'd like to let her know some of what he feels about it, make sure that she understands a little of how he feels about her. He doesn't know what this git's been saying to her, but everyone he's spoken to has said that verbal bullying is part and parcel of the violence. _Keep the victim feeling bad about themselves, _Donovan explained, _and they're less likely to think they deserve help. Keep them with their head down, and they won't see all the support they've got. _So before Ollie can stop him, he moves forward. Pulls Molly's hand from Hough's and takes it in his own.

A thought comes randomly, that he should do something moronic, like squeeze it, but before he can make such an idiot of himself he pushes the notion away.

"You don't have to do this, Molly," he says instead, as gently as he can. "You don't have to settle for this."

"A girl like her doesn't _settle _for a heart-surgeon," Ollie snaps, apparently remembering his tongue now his ego's been pricked. _Useful piece of information, that, _Sherlock thinks. "She might settle for the freak who talked her into faking his death, but me? Me? Six figure salary, flat in the city? More money than she ever saw in that decrepit little Whitechapel shithole that spawned her? That's not settling, dickhead. _That's_ striking gold."

And as expected, Ollie squares up to Sherlock, despite their height difference.

He reminds the detective, in that moment, of every rugby-playing, old-boy network bully he had to deal with at school.

Since a suspicious amount of those bullies ended up expelled and injured however, (though not necessarily in that order), Sherlock feels not the slightest bit threatened. He needs only for Molly to finish this little farce, to say something scathing about him in comparison to her current beau to put him in his place. Once that happens, he will pretend to slink away and watch for her signal. At least he won't have to worry about having gotten her in trouble with Ollie The Abuser. _At least he will know he hasn't caused more harm than good._ But though he looks at her expectantly, nothing comes, she stays silent. He stares at her, willing her to realise what was needed- _she's normally so quick about things like this- _but instead she just stares at Sherlock some more. For a moment the silence stretches out, his words hanging between them, tense as a plucked violin string-

And then suddenly Molly blinks, seems to recollect herself.

He sees the moment she realises what she has to do.

"You heard him, _freak_," she says spitefully. "Get lost, I have a proper boyfriend now. And don't come back to the morgue again, or I'll have security throw you out."

At her words Sherlock turns on his heel, taking the image of Ollie smiling smugly and Molly watching him from beneath lowered lashes right out the door with him...

But when he comes home from a crime scene a month later and finds Molly asleep on his couch, he knows that he did the right thing that day.


	8. A Beam In Darkness: Let It Grow

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Rocking the Redhead, N, Katya Jade and Sallyandmidna: they're the reason I could get this up so fast. Enjoy.

**A BEAM IN DARKNESS: LET IT GROW**

Molly Hooper is nine full inches shorter than Sherlock Holmes.

He remembers this because, when he first started coming into the morgue for cases, one of her fellow pathologists-a profoundly dull creature named Tim Jenkins- used to tease him about it. Used to accuse him of looking down her shirt from his great height whenever he singled her out as helper or assistant on his cases. The idiot had clearly had some sort of attraction to Molly, and had thus been jealous of her obvious interest in Sherlock: He was merely acting out his frustration in the most passive-aggressive way imaginable, of that the detective had had no doubt. But whatever his reasons, Holmes had eventually decided the jokes would have to stop. They were tedious and annoying and distracting, and he was worried that Ms. Hooper was going to start taking Jenkins at his word.

So to that end, one day he informed his would-be stand-up comic that not only would it takes more than "Hooper's measly bosom," to drag his mind from science, but that idiots like _he_ were clearly far more Molly's equal and style than a gentleman like himself. Molly had taken the words better than he expected, only stepping out of the lab to "fix her makeup," a full ten minutes after everyone else had stopped yelling at him. Returning two minutes later, looking surprisingly unruffled, a slight puffiness to her cheeks the only indication of her upset. But though she appeared to weather the insult, that was the last day Sherlock saw her wear her hair up in the morgue, the last day he saw her wear makeup-

He thinks of that now, as he stares down at her, curled up on his couch.

_ She looks small. Fragile. Insignificant_.

But she is so much tougher than others give her credit for- _And so much more deserving of kindness than the idiocy she's received in its stead. _

She stirs in her sleep then, a frown puckering her brow. Before he really knows what he's doing he's sat down beside her. Hands coming to rest on the pillow at her head, his reticence to touch her not something he really understands. She frowns again, her arms curling up protectively across her chest, her knees along with them.

_ Again Sherlock feels it, that… twinge within, which only seems to come to him around her. _

He considers letting her return to sleep, but the thought is instantly dismissed as imbecilic: If she's here then she's probably been in some sort of altercation with the boyfriend, Sherlock thinks, and if that's the case then she will need medical aid. Though he can see no bruises, it's part of Hough's modus operendi to harm her in places which aren't routinely shown. _And the beating must have been serious this time, if it finally prompted her to run_. Besides, what if she has a head injury? What if she's at risk of a concussion? She doesn't appear to be bleeding, but one can never be sure. He doesn't think Molly would be foolish enough to sleep in those circumstances, but if she came here in a state of shock then she might well have done so and if that's the case, he has to know it-

_ All of which means_, he thinks darkly, _that he's going to have to wake her. _

He doesn't really want to disturb her but he knows it's for the best.

So he turns on the small lamp beside her, casting the room in warm, golden light but not brightening it so much that it will hurt her eyes on opening them.

Then he reaches down and, as un-gruffly and un-querulously as he can, gives the young woman a little shake, rousing her from her rest.

For a moment after she opens her eyes they flash wildly around the room and Sherlock can see her trying to place where she is, just as he can see her try to tamp down on her flight-or-fight response. It takes her barely a moment and then her gaze comes to focus on him, breath slowing, a small, tremulous smile darting across her lips. Her arms loosen across her chest, legs stretching out as if registering that she is with a friend, and despite himself, despite everything, Sherlock gives her a smile. _He hopes it tells her that she is… safe with him. _Maybe it does, for she nods, moving, trying to stretch. As she shifts her t-shirt rides up on her belly and he sees a flash of mottled bruising that looks only a day old. It sits amid a bed of what look like older marks, each one placed in one of the few areas Sherlock knows nobody but Ollie or perhaps a doctor would ever see. The thought makes Sherlock grimace in anger; When she sees him looking at her Molly shyly pulls the shirt down, not as if she's afraid, he thinks, but as if... As if she's blaming herself for his reaction, and trying not to upset him. Sherlock opens his mouth to try and explain that that's not it, that she is not to make herself accountable for his feelings, but though he tries to say it, no words come to him.

_ He can't think of a way to put it that won't sound like he's reprimanding her, and Christ knows he doesn't want to do that_.

So he says nothing. She goes to sit up and Sherlock moves clumsily out of the way, trying simultaneously to stay near her and not crowd her. He remembers one of Donovan' former colleagues, Donna Bradley, explaining that often in the aftermath of an attack the victim doesn't want anyone else to initiate physical contact, how, after boundaries have been breached, it's important that the person be allowed to rebuild them in their own space and time, and in the way they choose. He tries not to remember the rest of that conversation, the way Bradley had warned him that he might also have to deal with the aftermath of a sexual assault. Rape in abusive relationships was not uncommon, and sometimes the victim in question did not even characterise it _as _rape. At this thought a pit of dread threatens to open in his stomach, the notion that someone could do that to Molly as distressing as the worry of what he would do if he now had to deal with it-

"Sherlock," she says quietly, "are you ok? Is- Is something the matter?"

Her voice tells him she is absolutely in earnest.

Holmes stares at this young woman, this _friend_, who has recently fled an abusive boyfriend and has probably just been assaulted, but who seems more concerned that _he _is alright, and it straightens his priorities out more thoroughly than even a dressing down from John andMrs. Hudson could have done.

He clears his throat. "Yes, Molly, I am fine," he says stiffly. "I was merely trying to make sure you were comfortable- As I understand it, I'm not supposed to crowd you."

She frowns. "Who told you that?"

"The same people who told me you might need the safety pack I gave you, the same people who told me you might need a place to stay. Your friends, Molly."

Her gaze drops to her fingers, one nail worrying the sofa's cushions. The next words are directed to it. "Then everyone knows about what's happening, don't they?" she says in a tiny voice. "Everyone knows what I- about me and Ollie, don't they?"

Sherlock gives a minute nod. "If by "everyone," you mean, me, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Sergeant Donovan then yes, Molly, everyone knows."

_ He doesn't see the point in lying to her about that. _

Her lip starts to wobble most alarmingly, eyes suddenly bright with moisture. Sherlock feels a shot of panic at the thought of her crying, but he manages to force it down.

"Then everyone I know knows that I'm an idiot…" she mutters. "Jesus, everyone knows I've been such a bloody _moron_…"

"No." Despite the no touching rule, Sherlock cannot let her think that. He takes her by both shoulders, gives her the tiniest little shake. It doesn't appear to register, but then, he thinks humourlessly, she's been shaken harder before. "Nobody thinks that," he tells her tightly. "Nobody is even _contemplating _that. We all know that the only idiot in this situation is that cretin, Hough. And if anyone wants to argue about that, they'll have to go through me. And John and Mary. And Mrs. Hudson. And Donovan, if she has her way. _And_ half the Met, if Lestrade finds out." He lets out a long sigh, presses one hand to hers. To his relief she doesn't appear discomfited by the gesture. _He's not entirely sure he can say the same_. "You're not alone," he tells her. "You'll never be alone in this. Do you…

Do you understand me, Molly?"

She nods slowly. "I suppose."

Sherlock shakes his head with frustration. "You must not suppose, you must understand. You must _know._" He stands, paces. He has to say this, wants her to understand that there are people on whom she can depend. "Nobody blames you," he tells her. "Nobody thinks you deserve this. You should be able to find a man to spend your life with and assume that he will treat you with respect-"

At his raising his voice he sees her eyes go wide. Suddenly she looks… She looks nervous. It appears she's afraid of his anger, this time. It's not surprising, really, he muses, plenty of people are scared of his temper.

He just doesn't want one of them to be her.

_ Calm, _he reminds himself. _Patience. This is not about __**you**__. _

He takes a deep breath, forces himself to quietness.

_ Maybe if he behaves as he usually does then she will follow suit. _

"I assume you have been injured," he says tightly instead, looking down his nose at her. With another woman he might worry she'd take it personally, but he suspects Molly knows him better than that.

A blush spreads over her cheeks and she nods. "You… You saw…"

He gives a brusque nod. "And is that your only area of injury, Ms. Hooper?" She worries her lip and for a moment Sherlock swears his heart skips a beat. _Please don't tell me it's worse than that, _he wants to say, but instantly he chides himself for so cowardly a thought.

Molly however shakes her head, her gaze dropping again. "There are other injuries, but I'd prefer…"

"You'd prefer Mary, or a female doctor, have a look at them, yes?" It's a guess but a good one and he sees her nod in relief. Despite himself he feels a small wash of happiness, that he could at least give her that. "Yes, well, I'm sure that can be arranged," he says stiffly. "I shall call John right now and ask he and his wife to come over." A pause. He's not sure how to broach the next subject. _He supposes bluntness will have to do, it having worked so far, but he really wishes he had something else on which to call. _"And… would you like me to call the police?" he asks tightly.

Her eyes widen again. For a moment they stare at one another. Their silence is absolute.

_ And then_…

"I-I don't know," she stammers. "I hadn't- Ollie's away for a few days, I thought I could use the time to sort my head out." She mumbles the next to her fingers. "This isn't the first time I've run away… They might not believe me because it's not..."

That's not what Sherlock wants to hear and he suspects his expression shows that, but he didn't spend all that time learning about feelings and… things, just to drop the ball now. Besides, if he were to do that then he suspects Donovan and Mary would have his head on a spike.

_ And he has the disconcerting feeling that John would help. _

"Yes, well, of course it's up to you," he says, trying to keep his tone reasonable. "I would just remind you that it's easier to press charges when the experience is still fresh, and the physical evidence is still extant." Her face goes paler and he softens, puffing out a breath. He doesn't want to push her too far, not with all she's been through. "It is of course your choice," he says, more quietly. "I would never presume to make it for you. But the supplies to take those samples are already here, if you want. It wouldn't… You wouldn't have to go down to the station. You could do it here." Again he clears his throat. "If you, would, um, like that."

"Would… Would you do it?"

The words sound louder than they should in the silence.

They're directed to a point somewhere at the back of his head, but Sherlock still hears them.

Again that strange pang twists in his chest.

"I would," he says evenly. "That is, if you wanted me to." Now it's his turn to direct questions to the furniture. The table the lamp's on, in his case. "Would you- That is, would that be alright with you?"

She looks up at him, the brown eyes wide and luminous. Grave, all of a sudden, and Sherlock thinks he knows why. "If _you _do it, then I suppose I can bear it," she all but whispers. "If you do it, it… it might be ok."

He nods. "Good. Then I'll call John, and I'll start sterilising supplies. Just give me… Just give me a few minutes."

And he walks from the room quickly, head down, agitated. As he passes her he feels her hand slide, ever so gently, up his arm, squeezing it, before dropping back to her side. When he looks back at her, her head's bent, her eyes pressed shut: she appears to be trying not to cry.

He heads out into his room, pulls out his phone but stares at it for nearly a minute before dialling the Watsons.

He is unwilling to examine his heartbeat's tenor or why he can still feel the impression of her hand upon his skin.


	9. The Praise That Comes From Constancy

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Renaissencebooklover108, razzle-dazzle1606, blairbearwaldorf, Aquitaine85, MorbidbyDefault, jankmusic, Katya Jade and Rocking the Redhead: again, ladies, I couldn't do this without you. Hope you enjoy the next chapter, and any feedback is appreciated.

**THE PRAISE THAT COMES FROM CONSTANCY**

John and Mary arrive within the hour.

They bring with them such vital necessities as food (Chinese takeaway, kept for tomorrow), clean clothing (socks, slippers, Marks & Spencer's knickers) and- most importantly of all- they bring the _good_ painkillers. The kind generally frowned upon in Europe. The kind John gets only because a friend of a friend brings them back every time he visits Romania.

They also bring bandages, gauze and Mary's Nikon D800e, the better to photograph Molly's injuries and detail just how badly she's been hurt- For the record.

Sherlock paces and… frets as they come in, well aware he's being ridiculous, unable to drive away the feeling that something very bad is going to happen.

He's relieved when Mary asks him can she move Molly to his room, relieved when she closes the door and he doesn't have to see the full extent of what was done to his friend.

The click of the door's latch sounds like a gunshot and then Molly is lost to his sight. As John watches Sherlock sets himself to lighting a fire in the living room grate, wanting- _needing_- to have something to do to take his mind off her. The skill required to get a live fire started is almost enough to keep his mind out of the room into which the women have disappeared; Details from cases past and present are drafted in to keep his attention, lest it should wander towards Molly and her injuries again. By the time he has the blaze going high Watson's staring at him, a cup of tea at his elbow. There's a plate of biscuits too which tells him that Mrs. Hudson must have been through recently but he didn't even notice.

John puts his teacup down. "Jesus," he says quietly, "this really has you rattled, doesn't it?"

And he gestures to the chair, asking Sherlock to sit.

He's already poured him some tea.

For a moment the detective is tempted to refuse, more out of the habit of petulance than the desire for it, but he can't really see the point in doing so. Before he can sit though something sounds in his bedroom, a soft thud as if someone has tripped over, and he's on his feet and halfway to the door before he catches himself. Forces himself to sit back down, a look of chagrin on his face.

John is still staring at him.

"Rattled is as rattled does, John," he says primly, trying to find some of his usual detachment. "I have experiments in there, she might have disturbed them."

Watson cocks an eyebrow. His look might best be described as "epically unimpressed."

"Well, that's one way of saying _I__'__m worried and I__'__m too much of a chicken to admit it,_" he says conversationally. "Experiments in the bedroom: is that what you whacky kids are calling it these days?"

Again Sherlock opens his mouth, tempted to attempt sarcasm again, but John doesn't look like he'll be distracted by it. So he sits back down, lifts his teacup. Takes a sip.

Mrs. Hudson brought Molly's favourite biscuits, he's tempted to point out.

Watson stares at him calmly, waiting for him to begin the conversation, knowing he will, and after a long moment- a _very _long moment- Sherlock relents.

"She was waiting for me when I got back from the Farthingale murder scene," he begins evenly. "I found her sleeping on the sofa… I had to wake her, needed to ascertain how she has been hurt." He grimaces. "That's when I suggested we call you and Mary."

If John notices that he hasn't mentioned how he _felt _about finding her, he gives no notice of it, something for which Sherlock is grateful. But then he and John have known one another long enough to have no need for going on the record about such things.

"How'd she get in?" the doctor asks instead.

His tone suggests they're discussing something entirely benign. Harmless.

_ There__'__s a reason he__'__s Sherlock__'__s best friend_

Holmes clears his throat. He's tempted to lie because he suspects he'll never hear the end of this. But he finds he doesn't want to lie to Watson, not about _her_.

"I gave her a key," he says stiffly. "The last time I was at Bart's, I left her a pack containing a key for here, travel documents. Identity papers. £20, 000 in cash and the limitless three day emergency credit-card Mycroft gave me when I first started hunting Moriarty's network, as well as a list of safe-houses she could use if she dropped my name."

He can't help a tiny twinge of satisfaction.

"I felt it was more than enough to be getting on with."

Watson's eyebrows are raised. "That's- Wow, that's a lot of stuff, Sherlock," he says. He sounds impressed. "Does Brother Dearest know you did all that for her?"

Sherlock scowls. "Yes, Mycroft knows. And if he'd just paid her the money he promised when she helped fake my death then all that wouldn't have been necessary- So he can bloody well pay up and not complain about it." And he frowns, crosses his arms over his chest in irritation.

_ It__'__s so much easier to be irritated than afraid_.

"Besides," he says, "having a brother who actually _is_ the British government should be useful for _something, _don't you think?"

John chuckles. "You're right there." His expression turns sombre after a moment though. "And was she alright, when you examined her?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock frowns, directing his gaze towards the fire.

_ Just for a moment he sees her bruises behind his eyes. _

"I only saw a small amount of flesh," he says. "Enough to ascertain she was beaten about the stomach, repeatedly and recently." He shrugs, tries to look nonchalant. _He is aware that he is not entirely successful in that endeavour._ "Knives and sharp objects do not appear to be part of Hough's MO, thankfully," he says. "I suppose repeated trips to the hospital for stitches would be flagged by the police and social services, which explains the lapse. And also, she might have bled to death, which would leave him with a murder charge..."

He and John both glare fiercely at the fire at that, his earlier anger once again threatening to reignite.

_ He doesn't want to think the words "Molly," and "murder charge," in the same sentence, and it seems John feels the same. _

The silence stretches out.

"She seemed to be uncomfortable with my seeing her injuries, so I did not press," he says eventually, taking another sip of tea. "I promised her I'd get Mary, and that I'd take the forensic samples myself, which seemed to calm her. Sally agreed to get one of the forensics team to come down and pick them up. It's just as well: I don't think Molly would go through with it if she has to go down to the station." Again, he grimaces.

"Besides, Anderson's not getting his incompetent paws anywhere _near _her, and neither are any of his mouth-breathing, idiot brethren. She's suffered more than enough already, without exposing her to _that._"

John snorts. "Don't let Donovan hear you say that."

Sherlock gestures dismissively. "The good Sergeant's done with him these three months now. Has herself a lovely young thing in the Case Progression Unit, from what she says. Good bloody riddance, as far as I'm concerned: Not even I could ever completely ascertain the reasoning behind an intelligent woman like Sally's attraction to _Anderson.._."

John's eyes widen and he opens his mouth, doubtless to ask when Sherlock Holmes became the sort of person Sergeant Donovan talked about her love life with, but as he does the door opens and Molly and Mary walk out, arm in arm. Their heads close together as if they've been sharing confidences, and Sherlock can't help but notice that when Molly sees him staring, Mary gives her elbow the tiniest little squeeze. Nodding to her as if reminding her of some secret they share. The two women move forward slowly and as they do he notes the look Mary shoots her husband, a look he knows translates as _you and I need to talk, darling. _

Sherlock knows bloody well what Mary thinks they need to talk about, but he really can't be bothered to examine that right now.

Instead he dismisses the thought to stare at Molly. She has emerged from his room, and she appears to be… alright. Better than she was before. It's not that he didn't think she would be, it's just nice to have it confirmed; She's even smiling a little, and that has to be a good sign, he thinks. Her hair is down, her eyes on her slippers. She's wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a little, strappy top with a picture of a kitten on the front, her hands tugging uncomfortably at the t-shirt's hem. When she sees him her shoulders relax, her body sagging, as if she's found some sort of… safe point. Immediately Sherlock stands, takes his coat from where it was thrown as he entered the flat this evening. Draping it gruffly over her shoulders, buttoning it up until even her throat's covered as John and Mary watch, perturbed. He's not sure how he knows she was uncomfortable under his scrutiny- _beautiful women usually don__'__t mind being looked at, do they?_- but he knows all the same, and he's willing to do something about it.

_ Take that in the eye, Ollie Hough, _he thinks.

_ It will have to do until I get something really lethal I can nail you with. _

"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly says quietly then. "I- These aren't mine," and she gestures helplessly to her pyjamas.

"I know," he says curtly. "You prefer long sleeves."

"How do you kn- Oh, when you stayed with me."

_ How can her smile be so normal after what she__'__s been through?_

But he nods. "Yes. Among other things."

She smiles more widely. He does too.

To his side he hears John clear his throat and he remembers they have company; It's only then he realises that they're standing unconscionably close.

So he takes a step aside- _no crowding her, Sherlock! _his inner Sally Donovan tells him- and gestures to his seat beside the fireside. She sits and he finds himself plopped down beside her. Her shoulder is pressed, warm and soft, against his. She shivers and without really thinking about it Sherlock stands and shoves the sofa closer to the fire. It's not difficult-even if it looks slightly ludicrous-so he doesn't make her stand while he does it.

_ She still looks at him with wide eyes though._ _As do Mary and John_.

Once he's established that she's as near as she can get to the flames without actually catching fire he hands her one of the biscuits from his saucer before she can ask him. Stands up and fetches her a cup of tea, adding the requisite sugar and milk and then handing it back to her without saying a word. Once she's settled, he tells her, they can set about taking her forensic samples. He's already got the equipment there- he gestures to the kitchen table- but he thinks she should get warmed up first. He's afraid she's going to catch a chill. As he speaks he hears John murmur something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like _who are you and what have you done with my best friend? _Mary, on the other hand, merely shakes her head and throws her husband another pointed look.

_ Ignatius, _he's tempted to tell them. _It's** my** middle name. Sherlock Ignatius Holmes, if you're looking for baby names. _

Wisely however, Sherlock decides to ignore all of this. He's not sure sarcasm would help right now.

_And anyway, he'd much rather pay attention to Molly._

So he does just that. Trying to keep his surveillance unobtrusive, because he suspects staring will make her uncomfortable all over again. In fact, is he's being truthful, he _knows _it will. In his coat she appears even tinier than before, her little body swimming in the heavy woollen cloth. She seems to like it though, judging by the way she snuggles into it, and he even catches her… sniffing the fabric, as if trying to catch its scent. Again, he feels that peculiar, Molly-specific pang in his chest as he witnesses this. Again, he forces any speculation about the nature of the feeling resolutely away. He doesn't want to think about it, he tells himself, and there are more important things to which he can turn his mind right now…

_The most important, of course, being how to get Oliver Hough out of her life for good._

Eventually her shivering ceases and she stretches out her legs in front of the fire, twirling her toes and warming them. As he does so he notes the bruises marring the backs of her legs and her shins: They match the ones he noticed along her spine and shoulders when she emerged from his room. Something about that tugs at his deductive reasoning- _It seems to get a little… sluggish, when it comes to Ms. Hooper but he's sure it will come to him in time- _but though he tries to place it, the thought won't come to him. So instead he waits for her to get warm and comfortable. Explains what he thinks she should do.

"How do you feel about Dartmoor?" he asks her, as he hands her another biscuit. It turns out she's never been.

And so they sit together and make plans, Mary and John, Sherlock and Molly. Hooper falls asleep on the sofa, her little bare feet warmed by Sherlock's long, elegant fingers.

_And in that moment of stillness and firelight, Oliver Hough might as well not exist at all._

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed it. As for why you didn't see Sherlock take the samples: I belatedly realised that I don't know how to take those sorts of samples. And also, I felt like I'd prefer to give Molly a bit of privacy in that, which I know sound nutty but hey, I can't help it. I get protective of my girl. Hope you enjoyed that and that you'll like the rest. And have a great weekend. Hobbits away, hey!


	10. Oh Not For Thee The Glow, The Bloom

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to (drum-roll please!): Renaissencebooklover108, blairbearwaldorf, katya jade, jankmusic, Aquitaine85, Silkenslay, Rocking the Redhead and crooney83. Thank you so much for all the positive feedback, hope you enjoy the next.

**OH NOT FOR THEE THE GLOW, THE BLOOM**

Waking up the next morning is… disconcerting.

Sherlock opens his eyes to find Molly's feet still in his lap, one of his hands covering them. Warming them. This in itself surprises him: That he should be so concerned, even in sleep, is not something he would have expected of himself. Her body is turned on its side on the sofa; Her arms are crossed defensively over her chest, one hand lying looser than the other, splayed almost against the sofa cushions. As he shakes off the grogginess of waking he realises that his other hand has found its way atop Molly's loosened one, the heat of her skin warm and teasing against his palm. This too is unusual, almost as if… Almost as if he did not wish to break their contact, even in sleep.

_ Well, _he thinks. _That's… odd. _

_ Not bad, just… odd. _

He frowns at the thought, stretching slightly he takes in the rest of her. The weight of her legs are… reassuring against him, the bones of her feet as fragile as a bird's beneath his fingers. The easy rhythm of her breath is soothing to his ears; Though his neck hurts- he fell asleep sitting up- the warmth of her presence takes the edge of his stiffness, the feeling of having another human being beside him far less… cumbersome, than he would have otherwise imagined. _Far less stifling than he might have guessed_. Sherlock turns his head this way and that, working out the kinks, pressing down his shoulders. His movement must disturb her because Molly gives a little moue of distress, her brows drawing together, frowning. Eyes moving rapidly beneath her eyelids, her arms curling more tightly in on herself, as if readying herself for a blow. She gives out another little call, a shudder, her body shaking in the midst of some nightmare and for a moment Sherlock has absolutely no idea what to do, no notion of how to help her-

And then, frowning, hesitating, he reaches out and very slowly, very awkwardly, touches her hair. Strokes it. It feels very, very soft to him.

He has no idea if this will work, knows only that it used to work on _him, _all those years ago when he was just a small boy in a big house with nothing but Mummy and his experiments for company-

She calms, her breathing evening out. The frown marring her brow dissipating.

For a moment Sherlock stares down at her, nonplussed, unsure what he is doing.

He does not, however, take his hand away.

And he does not, however, wake her up.

He must fall back asleep after that because the second time he opens his eyes, it's to see John and Mary staring at him, still in their coats. Mrs. Hudson must have let them in, Sherlock thinks groggily, because he certainly didn't do it and John no longer has a key. As the couple exchange looks he becomes acutely aware of how… improper this must appear. Molly, asleep, Sherlock with his hands all over her. It's not like he was doing anything untoward, but he knows this must look a little… incriminating all the same.

As soon as he opens his mouth to explain this however, Molly jerks awake, his movement probably rousing her. For a moment he sees that same distress he saw last night, the siren call of her fight-or-flight response written across her form. But again when she sees him she stills. Calms herself. She smiles at him hesitantly and Sherlock smiles back. She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it, as if thinking the better of words. Instead she shakes her head to herself, going to sit up, and that's when she registers how they fell asleep.

It's also, Sherlock can see, when she registers his hands against the bare skin of her feet, her fingers.

As he might have expected, she turns bright red at the realisation.

Molly used to blush all the time when he first knew her. Her ineffectual attempts at flirting had been nothing on her blushing, in terms of tells. _He'd known she found him physically attractive the moment she'd set eyes on him_. But this blush seems different from those earlier ones, more intimate somehow. More… inviting, maybe. Or maybe just more… his. It's like a code-word, some symbol between them. A secret. As if, though _she_ turns red, it's somehow tied to his insides too. _Like it's somehow part of him_. Sherlock want to scowl at that thought, knows it for the ridiculous romanticism it is. Human beings are alone in their flesh, he does not doubt this. No nuance, no connection is truly possible, save that tenuous moment when we might truly see another's darkness, another's cruelty. When we see Darwin's ape howling inside the flesh of Adam's breed.

But though he thinks this, somehow Sherlock cannot bring himself to believe it with her.

_ And when he looks at her, sees the way she's staring at him, Sherlock cannot shake his absolute certainty that she… That she feels __**something**__ of this too. _

He is brought back from his musings by John's snort of laughter though. His friend is looking at him in amusement. "Look, Geppetto," John murmurs to his wife. "He's a real, live boy now…"

Molly winces slightly in embarrassment, averting her eyes so Sherlock answers that in the only way possible, considering.

"Get bent, short-arse," he says crisply.

He inclines his head to Mary, to show it's not just his usual morning crankiness. John chortles.

"And good morning, Mary. Lovely to see you. I trust you slept well?"

"I did. As did you, I'll warrant." Mary's eyes are amused, but Sherlock doubts she'd be so insensitive as to make her friend uncomfortable the way her husband just did. _Really,_ he muses,_ women just have so much more delicacy about these sorts of things_. And as if to prove his point she turns her back on him, not mentioning how he and Molly fell asleep. Not even grinning at Molly as she disentangles her feet from his lap, much to Sherlock's disappointment. Instead she holds out her hand to the other woman, pretending not to notice as Hooper's blush deepens.

"Come on," she says, "I told the locksmith we'd be at your place for eleven and it's nearly ten now: We'd best get moving. Those locks won't change themselves, you know." She throws a glance at her husband.

"Besides, if you want to get a bag packed for Dartmoor and make the train, it'd be best to give ourselves as much time as possible: Henry says he can't possibly get up into London before one and we don't want to keep the poor man waiting-"

Molly clambers to her feet. She's still wearing Sherlock's coat, and it's become a mass of creases and wrinkles in the night.

_ She does not, however, he is pleased to note, attempt to take it off. _

"Oh, of course," she says, making for Sherlock's bedroom. "Henry's the friend of Sherlock and John's, isn't he? The one who was involved with the Baskerville case?"

Mary nods, hustling her into Sherlock's bedroom. _Which is apparently now her dressing room_, he thinks. _Not that he really minds_.

"The very one," she says. "And I happen to have it on good authority that he's a little bit chewy, as my old mum would say-"

Molly stops and links, halfway to the door. "A little bit chewy?" she asks. "What on Earth does _that _mean?"

Mary shoots her a conspiratorial smile and though the words are not said in Sherlock's direction, they are clearly aimed at him.

"It means that he's the sort of lovely young man you wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crisps," Mary tells her. "Big house in the country, nice healthy trust fund, and did I mention he works with children who've been through trauma now? Wants to give something back after the whole Baskerville thing, he says." Mary's gaze turns positively devilish. "So we'd best get you looking your best, because they do say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, Molls-"

"Mary!" Molly sounds absolutely mortified, and Sherlock will never admit it in a thousand years but he's pleased to hear it. Molly end up with someone like Henry Knight? It's absurd. He wouldn't have the first clue how to take care of her: He has the whole broken bird thing going on himself, he'd expect a woman to handle _him _like fine China, not the other way around. And what would they talk about? Lovely young man and all that (_if you liked that sort of thing,_ Sherlock grudgingly admits) but he'd never be able to entertain a woman like Molly. Molly likes autopsies and figuring out how murders were committed. Molly likes people who ask for her help and treat her like she's useful, not idiotic posh boys with hang-dog expressions and disgustingly large puppy dog eyes and-

"Sherlock?" he hears John's voice intrude on his thoughts. "Sherlock, are you ok, mate?"

Holmes snaps his attention back to his best friend. It belatedly occurs to him that Molly and Mary have disappeared inside his room. "Of course I'm alright, Pinocchio," he says tartly. "Why do you ask?"

John steps closer. "Because you're squeezing that cup so tightly I'm in fear for its life, that's why."

They both look down and Sherlock realises that yes, he is indeed holding onto one of the teacups from last night unconscionably hard. A saucer too. He suspects he was originally planning on putting them in the dishwasher but things went... awry.

_ Well, _Sherlock thinks, _how about that? _

Before he can answer though, John leans in closer. Puts a friendly hand on Holmes' back. "Look, Mary's just teasing, mate," he says softly. "She's just trying to get a rise out of you. I've told her that you'll talk to Molly in your own time and space but she wants you to get a move on. Thinks if you do it'll get Molly over The Bastard a bit quicker-"

Sherlock's not feeling very charitable about her methods and he blames that for what he says next.

"Well, if she'd never introduced them they we wouldn't be in this mess, would we?" he bites out.

_ He is well aware that it is not exactly his finest moment. _

Instantly John's face goes hard. "I am going to put that statement down to worry about Molly," he says stiffly. "And since it's a product of worry about Molly, and Molly is being taken care of now, then it will not be necessary to repeat it again. _Ever_. Is that entirely clear Sherlock?"

And he rocks back in his heels, arms crossed. Sherlock knows that look.

Mary apparently calls it the Gandalf Special: It roughly translates as _you shall not pass. _Works on dragons, orcs, balrogs and monsters of all descriptions.

_ Works on Consulting Detectives too, apparently, because, with a great deal more grace than he's feeling, Sherlock nods._

Truth be told, he has no doubt that Mary feels guilty about bringing Hough into Molly's life. He has enough regrets of his own, to recognise their presence in another. And he knows that his own quicksilver emotions are probably at the root of all this: Let him see Molly put on the train to Dartmoor and he'll feel better. _He'll know she's safe. _Ollie's not back from his conference in Cardiff for another few days and once he is Sherlock will have the pleasure of torturing him to distract him from this topsy-turvy, whatever-the-Hell-is-going-on with-Ms.-Hooper-and-the-strange- mysterious-heart-pangs-she-causes… _thing_.

So with as much grace as he can muster, he stands up and heads for the shower. Takes a quick one, giving Molly time to get changed before he comes out and is compelled to kick her out of their- _ahem, __**his**_- room. By the time he's finished she's ready to go, forcing Sherlock to get a move on if he wants to go with her. He chooses a grey charcoal suit and a matching purple shirt for no particular reason- _and certainly not because he has noticed Molly has a certain fondness for them- _and all but bounds out the door as the Watsons and Molly leave.

They share a cab and he makes an effort to be polite to Mary, just to show John that he can stop glaring at him.

Molly insists on sitting beside him, her hand splayed next to, but not quite touching, his during the entire ride.

The first stop is Molly's Whitechapel flat, where they pick up a bag of clothes and leave John to supervise the locksmith. The second is St. Bart's, where Mary and Sherlock flank Molly protectively as she haltingly explains to Stamford about her having to leave for a couple of weeks, and how Ollie shouldn't be let into the hospital. Stamford halts her halfway through that. "Molly," he says. "It's fine. You look after yourself: Don't worry about us, love." And he nods to Sherlock the way he nods to John when he's talking about what a wonderful doctor his wife is, setting something dark and warm and satisfied crooning in Holmes' chest.

The joy of that lasts as long as it takes them to get to Paddington Station and meet up with John again.

It lasts for as long as it takes John to hand Molly the new keys to her flat and to tell her that Henry Knight is waiting for them with Mrs. Hudson, that he's bought their tickets for the 1.32 train and is ready to go.

The warm feeling doesn't survive the wide-eyed, appreciative, slightly smitten look Henry shoots Molly when he sees her. It doesn't survive his offering to carry her bag for her.

Molly kisses Sherlock goodbye, her lips soft and dry against his cheek, her arms around his neck for a moment, and all the way back to Baker Street Sherlock wonders why it never occurred to _him _to offer his services as escort in Dartmoor.


	11. Thine Are These Orbs Of Light And Shade

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to emmapocalypse, jankmusic, Aquitaine85, Crimson and Chrome 42, blairbearwaldorf, Rocking the Redhead, Renaissencebooklover108, NicoleJacobs and Katya Jade. Thanks ladies, I couldn't do this without you. A slight change of pace in this one, but necessary. Enjoy!

**THINE ARE THESE ORBS OF LIGHT AND SHADE**

The dreams start the night after she leaves for Dartmoor.

They're strange. Haunting. More like memories, but memories of things Sherlock knows have never happened.

_ Or, at least_, he thinks, _they have never happened to him_.

Because they're… warm. Wet. Soft. Breathing and lips and sighs and flesh against his. His flesh inside someone else's. Someone else's body making his ache with loneliness, with want. There's a press of limbs tangling together, sometimes, hair caught in his fingers. Swear words and laughter and shadows that don't feel lonely because there's someone waiting inside them for him now. Someone who's been waiting inside them all along.

In the cold light of day they're ridiculous. Risible. The product of a fevered imagination, trying to conjure the experience of something Sherlock has never actually been through- At least, not when he wasn't off his head on some substance or other, be it narcotics or alcohol or good, old-fashioned despair. But once darkness falls, they don't feel like folly anymore. Don't feel like something he has to categorise or examine. No, then they become friends. Wanted visitors. He closes his eyes and, and…he _hopes _for them.

He can't make them stop, and he can't properly recall them, but he knows they have something to do with Molly.

_ And like anything to do with Molly these days, he guards them jealously. Hoards them, as a dragon might hoard its trinkets, or a demon might his sins_.

He catches John looking at him sometimes, when he's heard some update or other about Molly's condition- he never asks for them himself, gets everything second-hand- and though he has often accused his friend of being stupid, he knows John has guessed something of what he's going through. But Watson never asks him and for this he is grateful. _After all, he doesn't really know how to explain what's happening to him, and he doubts the doctor demanding an explanation would bring clarity to his state. _So for the most part he ignores the dreams, unless he's in a position to enjoy them. Goes about his plan to keep Molly safe with the minimum amount of trouble to himself and others, and the maximum amount of hassle for Ollie The Bastard Hough (his official title now).

So Sherlock plots, waits. Broods on things. Lets the idiot panic- as idiots often do- content in the knowledge that, however he might feel about Henry Knight and his obsequious, bag-carrying tendencies, Hough will soon be in no position to hurt Molly again thanks to Knight's help. Hough gets back from Cardiff three days after Molly departs for Dartmoor: He is surprisingly intelligent about trying to find her once he realises her clothes are gone, going to Stamford and inquiring politely whether the man knows anything about Molly leaving. Implying that they'd had some sort of lovers' quarrel before his conference and now he's afraid she's gone and done something foolish- _Because Molly's been known to be a little flighty over men, you saw what happened with that Holmes bloke, how he sweet-talked her, didn't you? _

Thankfully Mike Stanford is no fool though and he keeps his temper, telling the other man that Molly had simply said she needed a couple of weeks off, but hadn't told him where she was spending them. She had more than three months of holiday hours' accrued, he told Hough, even with all the time she'd missed due to illness this year, and he didn't see any harm in letting her take it. _Now. _Something about the way he'd said it had tipped Hough off that Molly had been talking to her boss, Sherlock was sure of it, but beating up a man the same size as him in front of a security camera hadn't apparently titillated Hough in the same way beating up an elfin, 5"3' woman when there were no witnesses present did, and Ollie had left St. Bart's on good terms, heading straight for Molly's family home in Whitechapel.

This was when he started being tailed by Sergeant Sally Donovan, though he wasn't to know that yet.

_ Sally had yet to find a reason to kick the shit out of him, and there was no point in introducing herself, she had pointed out sensibly to Sherlock, until she did. _

When Hough got to Molly's family home in Whitechapel, he found the doors locked and those locks changed. Inquiries from the neighbours told him that Molly had last been seen with her two friends, John and Mary Watson, and a "tall, skinny white boy in a long, swishy coat." Now, given that there is a dearth of tall, skinny white boys in swishy coats in Whitechapel, and given that Molly counted even fewer in her circle of acquaintance- namely, one- Ollie quickly put two and two together and came up with Sherlock. And since 221B Baker Street was now one of London's best-known addresses- _Thank you, Kitty Reilly- _Hough wasted no time in making his way to Sherlock's with the entire purpose of knocking down his door and dragging his cheating, lying, whoring girlfriend off somewhere where he could teach her the error of her ways before he knocked that bastard Holmes' teeth in-

Of course, by the time he got to Baker Street, Sherlock was ready for him.

Sally, Lestrade, the Watsons, a goodly portion of the Flying Squad, several neighbours and even Mrs. Turner Next Door's Married Ones were there too, bringing the count for Team Molly up into the double digits and surprising Sherlock with how many people could fit inside his front room.

When Ollie started banging on Sherlock's door, fully expecting it to be answered by a little old lady who went by the name of Mrs. Hudson, he had no idea what sort of odds he was walking into. He expected to maybe encounter Sherlock, but he was hardly the sort of physical specimen to intimidate a man who'd played rugby all the way through university and who had an orange belt in tae kwon do. But when he walked in, Sherlock was waiting for him, and he was not alone. If Ollie were to try anything violent, there'd be plenty of witnesses- And he recognised Lestrade from an appearance on _Crimewatch, _in which Molly had shyly pointed the grey-haired man out as her boss. So Ollie had walked slowly into the room, watching everyone but keeping his main attention on Sherlock. The detective nodded genially- he could do genial once he knew the bastard was going down- and offered him a chair.

"Can I help you with anything?" he'd inquired politely. "Tea, perhaps? Some cake? Mary baked-"

"I don't want your bloody tea, I want my girlfriend back," Hough said tightly.

He stared at the gathered guests, his expression that of a man at the end of his tether. There were actors playing in the West End who couldn't have rivalled his performance.

_ Cue heartbroken swain, stage right, _Sherlock thought acidly.

"I know you have some sort of hold on her," Hough had said softly, his voice just the right side of devastated. "I know you have your ways of persuading her to do things, but please… I want my little Mol-Mol back…"

Sherlock had only managed to avoid snorting at this ridiculous name with a great deal of difficulty. _Mol-Mol indeed_. She was Molly bloody Hooper, the woman who fooled MI6 into thinking he was dead for two years; she deserved better than that Godawful nickname. But though he might be thinking it, Sherlock kept his feelings in check.

He didn't want anyone in the room unable to swear in good conscience that Ollie had absolutely picked the fight with him.

"If you're looking for Ms. Hooper, then I'm afraid I've no idea where she is," he told Hough. "Gone for a holiday, as far as I know. About time: She's had a hard year, she could use a break."

Hough's expression had turned ugly. "And you would know, wouldn't you? Whispering in her ear. Poisoning her against me." He shot Sherlock a disdainful look. "Everything was fine between us until you started bothering her again. Putting ideas in her head." He poked Sherlock angrily in the chest and the detective fought down the temptation to grin gleefully. _If Hough truly were stupid enough to take the first swing then this would be very easy indeed_. "We were happy," Ollie snapped. "We were doing well. We were talking about getting married. And then you come back into her life-" another poke to the chest, harder this time- "And suddenly she's giving me trouble, working late, spending time with that one there-"

He spit the words at Mary and instinctively John moved in front of his wife, his body language shifting defensively.

"Make one move towards my Mrs., Hough," John had snapped, "And you'll require surgery to remove my foot from your arse, you got that?"

The threat had its required effect: It turned Hough's attention from Mary.

Unfortunately however, it also served to remind him that he was in a room full of witnesses, threatening a man he believed his girlfriend was cheating on him with.

There was no way he'd come out of a physical altercation without being charged with assault, and to Sherlock's annoyance he'd seen the precise moment Hough came to that conclusion and decided to walk away from him. He saw it in the self-satisfied curl of his lip, the way the other man's eyes had narrowed. The shift from open predator the stealthy hunter, a slip which few in the room- except perhaps Sally and the Watsons- had seen. Hough had leaned into Sherlock, whispered in his ear that he knew who to watch to find Molly, and he'd better watch his back from here on in because the little bitch had made her bed and she was bloody going to lie in it-

And then Hough had sidled out the door, not having broken any rules at all, much to Sally's annoyance.

_ That he had also perfectly illustrated to Sherlock why Molly would need to stay in Dartmoor indefinitely, and why he would have to stay away from her, went without saying. _

That had been a month ago, and no progress with getting Molly back to London has been made since_. _She and Sherlock could text and email but even that's dangerous, and without the guarantee that she would be safe when she saw him, Sherlock can't bring himself to risk that. So he keeps his head down and waits for Hough to make a mistake he can nail him with. Even looks into framing him for a couple of things, while Sally discretely looks the other way.

And all through it, Sherlock dreams of Molly, dreams of her though the dreams never stay with him upon waking.

He'd never know it, but in Dartmoor Molly is dreaming something similar. She's dreaming, but she remembers them, and she knows what she wants now too.

The only difference is, she's gotten to the point where she's no longer willing to wait while an abusive arsehole and an over-protective detective try to decide how she should live her life- Which is what Sherlock discovers when they're finally face to face again.


	12. Her Faith Thro' Form Is Pure As Thine

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Entering the home stretch now, and thanks as always go to my lovely reviewers: LadyK1138, Renaissencebooklover108, GettingOverGreta, MorbidbyDefault, Cloudy Glass, Katya Jade, Geetha Iyer, jankmusic, Rocking the Redhead, Silkenslay, Aquitaine85, NicoleJacobs and Crimson and Chrome 42. It's especially lovely to hear that you feel I'm handling the DV element well, because that was my biggest fear with this story. And now, I know this chapter is short but a very important moment is afoot for Sherlock, and wouldn't you know, it involves his mobile phone...

**HER FAITH THRO' FORM IS PURE AS THINE**

He receives the text message at precisely 9.23am on Thursday 6th.

This means it arrives exactly one month and two days after she went to Dartmoor, and three weeks after Ollie's visit to Baker Street.

_ Am coming back this week, _Sherlock reads. _Have decided to press charges. Hope the offer to stay in Baker Street is still ok. MH _

Sherlock blinks at it a few times, unsure he has read it correctly. She can't mean to- It's not safe- _What if Hough finds out she's back? _Not that it's a case of _if_, but of _when_, Sherlock thinks angrily, standing. If the man has any sense at all- and his conduct in St. Bart's and when he visited the flat indicates that irritatingly, yes, he does- then he'll be watching out for any sign that Molly's returned to London. Given his financial resources, he's probably already watching her home: When she left for Devon Sherlock took the liberty of booking four separate hotels and hostels throughout Britain in her name, all of them with establishments which owe him favours, and each one has gotten in touch to say that a man going by Hough's description has personally turned up on their doorsteps with a photo of Molly-

Which means he's invested time and money into finding her already.

It also means that he now knows she's actively hiding from him, and that she has financial help in doing so.

Sherlock thinks of the look Hough shot him that day in his front room, when he demanded to speak to Molly, and he has not a doubt that The Bastard knows who's bankrolling Molly's escape-

All of which means that Baker Street is the first place he'll look for her. It's the first place he'll come and it's the place he'll watch most closely, since even Ollie would allow that Molly wouldn't be foolish enough to move back into her Whitechapel house on her own. Sherlock knows he can protect her, knows he can have the place watched by his homeless network (a hundred times better as surveillance than Mycroft's boys) and that John, Mary, Donovan and the police will doubtless pick up the slack. But he can't be here all the time. Something- anything- could happen to her, and if it does it will be his fault. He shakes his head to himself at the thought, pacing, and as he does he can feel it rising within him, the fear, nauseating in its intensity. For a moment he's on the rooftop of St. Bart's again, watching a cruel, vicious monster of a man threaten the people he loves. Knowing there's only one way to save them and it comes with a blood-debt attached. For a moment he's inside the memory, the thought of it so great that it blots out everything else. The edge of the roof rising up behind his eyes, the embrace of gravity folding him in tight as he falls-

Except, just for a moment, it's not him falling, it's Molly-

_ No. _His mind simply refuses to follow that thought through. _**No**__. _

He won't let that happen, he thinks. He won't.

There's only one thing he can say to Molly if she's planning on endangering herself and he says it.

_ Unacceptable, _he texts back. _Stay where you are. _

_ You can give a statement from there, someone from the Yard will come and take it. _

There is a long moment as he stares at his phone, telling himself that he can assume that will be the end of the matter. That mousy little Molly Hooper will do as she's told, accept that he's right.

He should have known better.

_ That was a statement, not a request, Sherlock, _Molly texts back. _I'm coming back to London, and if I can't stay with you, I'll stay with John and Mary. _

Sherlock stares at the phone, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's. Of all the times she's had to grow a spine, he thinks angrily, she had to choose this one? He's about to text her just that sentiment- or better yet, ring her and yell it in her ear- when the phone beeps again, indicating that he has received a picture message. He waits a moment for the image to download and then open, a photo of Molly at the St. Bart's Christmas party last year appearing before him. She's wearing a pretty, demure red dress with a sprig of tinsel in her hair- it must be the Bart's Christmas party, he can see Stamford- and she's grinning ear to ear as she toasts whoever's taking the photo. She looks… She looks happy.

Seemingly out of nowhere, it occurs to him that she's actually quite lovely when she's happy.

_ That's me, Sherlock, _the attached text message reads. _That's who I am and I want her back. But if I stay hiding in Devon, that will never happen. _

_ So please, help me, or I'll never really get off the Missing Persons List. _

Sherlock stares at that image for a long moment, pondering her expression. Wondering why he's never seen her smile so widely, wondering why he's never seen her laugh like that. He knows he's often been cruel or dismissive of her, just as he knows- though will never admit it- that a great deal of how he interacts with her come as a result of how… unsettled she makes him feel. _How unsettled she's always made him. _That uncomfortable pang she brings to his chest, that may be more acute now, but it has always been present. Even on her worse days, in her silly cardigans and her lopsided ponytails and her exceptionally ineffectual flirting, it had always been a part of his reaction to her, and it had always made him uncomfortable.

He didn't know what it was and he didn't know what to do about it. What to do about her**.**

_And that, _he must admit, _is an excruciating feeling for a man who wants to believe he knows everything. _

And so he has always told himself that they have nothing in common. Nothing to bring them together save the fact that they are both breathing vertebrates. But this- his eyes go back to the written portion of her message- this he understands. With this, he can even sympathise. He knows what it's like to want a life back, and he knows what it means to have to fight for that right. If it was anyone else, he's recommend they come back right away. Would stand with them while they faced the dragon, enjoying the thrill of combat and of a battle well met. Why should it be any different with Molly? Because he's afraid of her being hurt? He's afraid of John being hurt too, but he wouldn't ask him to hide from a fight, wouldn't even dream of it. Nor would he try it with Donovan, or Lestrade. Even Mrs. Hudson is tougher than she looks. Sally's words float back to him, as if from nowhere. _There are only two rules, freak: Don't be an arsehole and it's not about you. Think you can get that through your skull, posh boy? _

And he can do, he knows that. He already has done.

Just as he knows that in Molly's place, he'd want to do the same.

So he takes a moment, checks the train timetables for Devon. _There's a train from London tomorrow at 10.20, _he texts, _and I will be on it. I will escort you to Baker Street. Be ready. This is not a negotiation, and this is my last word on the subject. _

He sends the text and a moment later his reply sounds.

_ Agreed. Thank you, Sherlock. _

He stares at the words for a long moment and then sends the next, his fingers moving quickly, unwilling to read it once it's typed.

_ I would also like that Molly Hooper back, so there is no need to thank me. _

And then he shuts the phone, puts it quite definitely in his coat pocket- where he will tell himself he did not hear its beep if Hooper answers- and then goes into the shower and scrubs himself until he can he stop thinking about Hough finding her, about what might happen when she ventures back to the capital. He does not think about the dreams he's been having. He does not remember the way it felt to watch Henry Knight stare at his Molly like some sort of hormonal, cretinous idiot.

He especially does not let himself think about how she looked in that festive little red dress.

But when he appears in Henry Knight's house the next morning and sees her, her hair washed and styled, looking pretty in jeans, a silk blouse and a pair of low-heeled boots, he has to allow that this Molly Hooper is definitely worth fighting for.

_ Unfortunately for him however, he is not the only man who thinks as much._

_ And he is not the only person who knows where Molly Hooper spent the last month either, as the Detective and his pathologist are soon to find out. _


	13. When The Blood Creeps

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks as always or their reviews go to razzle-dazzle1606, Renaissencebooklover108, Aquitaine85, blairebearwaldorf, SallyandMidna, Katya Jade, jankmusic, Crimson and Chrome 42, Silkenslay and Rocking the Redhead. And for those of you who wanted more action, here you go...

**WHEN THE BLOOD CREEPS, AND THE NERVES PRICK AND TINGLE**

When he finally reaches Henry's place in Dartmoor, he finds Molly surrounded by children.

Big ones. Small ones. Loud ones. Abandoned ones, mostly, because that's what Henry Knight does now, he helps abandoned children find a home. Rude ones, entirely, judging by the way they gawp at him as he approaches, judging by the way the eldest look not the slightest bit impressed by meeting the great Sherlock Holmes.

Inwardly he grimaces: They're all disgustingly sticky with pigtails and runners and grating voices. One of them even sticks her tongue out at him, and Sherlock, paragon of maturity that he is, sticks out his tongue right back. As he strides up the drive he sees Molly, standing next to Mrs. Hudson on Henry Knight's porch, a wriggling toddler on her hip, her other hand resting lightly on her suitcase. Her black leather jacket is streaked with chocolate and biscuit crumbs, her pinned-up hair slightly loose from where someone has obviously tugged on it, and he doesn't need to be a detective to ascertain the cause: In fact, the child in question doesn't even look abashed.

_ And when it sees him coming, it screams its head off. _

It's this which warns her of his approach apparently and when her eyes come to rest on him they light up and she waves. The action sets something warm and pleasant and entirely too dangerous for analysis flickering within his chest, and as always when the Molly-Feeling arrives, Sherlock pushes it sternly away. As he watches she whispers something to the toddler and sets her down on Mrs. Hudson's lap, hefting her bag into her hand and starting up the garden path to meet him. Henry appears as if on cue behind her, another toddler- a slightly older boy, this time- holding onto his hand though he too leaves the child with Mrs. Hudson. Taking the bag from Molly- _idiot, _Sherlock thinks- and waving in greeting too. As he makes his way towards Sherlock, the detective can't help but think that he looks like some sort of Biblical paterfamilias, surrounded by doting children. Smiling the kind of smile only the truly happy or the recently lobotomised would share with the world, just as Molly is. _Just as everyone in this bloody house seems determined to do. _In fact, Ms. Hooper looks more relaxed and happy than he's seen her in months, grinning brightly at all her charges. The children make loud groaning noises as _she_ leaves, and it occurs to Sherlock how… comfortable she appears in this environment.

She is relaxed, content. Confident. The Molly of that Christmas picture she sent him.

The thought hits Sherlock, sharp as a dart: This is what she would want, isn't it? A house, children. A sweet-tempered man to come home to, one who'll grin at her as cloyingly as Henry's grinning now. One who won't tell her that her mouth or her breasts are too small. One who'll never make her honestly say that she, "doesn't matter."

He can't give her that, Sherlock knows. He'll never be able to give her that.

He could never bear to have such a small, warm life, he knows it as surely as he knows his own name.

_ And why the bloody Hell would you want to? _a voice which sounds suspiciously like Mycroft chimes in his head.

_ I might want it if she wanted it, _his own voice whispers back, though instantly he dismisses the thought as moronic.

_ Clearly, _he tells himself, _stupidity is becoming airborne. _

_ And from the looks of things, Henry Knight is patient bloody zero. _

So he scowls, shifts from foot to foot impatiently. By this point Henry and Molly have reached him and Knight holds out a hand in greeting while Molly stares at him from under her lashes. _Which is really, actually, surprisingly sort of distracting. _Sherlock forces himself to shake Henry's hand though, reminding himself that this young man has kept his friend safe for nearly a month and sheltered her from the worst of Hough's rage. His kindness is probably why she now feels strong enough to press charges, he reminds himself, and for that reason if nothing else Sherlock should make an effort to behave. So he shakes his hand, and he smiles as best he can. Molly and her lowered lashes are still distracting as Hell but he's had a lot of practice at ignoring her and that comes in handy now. Once he frees his hand from Henry's though he makes a point of taking Molly's bag from the man.

"I rather think I should be carrying that," he says.

For a second Henry frowns at him- the statement came out more forcibly than he intended- and then suddenly the other man's expression clears.

Sadness flickers momentarily on his face, but then he turns around and shoots Molly an understanding look which Sherlock likes not at all.

"Yes, I rather think you should be," he says quietly. With an obvious effort he perks up, smiles. "Though are you sure you can't be tempted in for a cuppa? I know your message said you were on a schedule, but surely that won't stop you-"

"I'm afraid we can't." Again, Sherlock is aware that his words sound more curt than they should do, but if he's going to get Molly into Baker Street and get her settled before his morning… amusements with Hough wear off and the bastard comes looking for her, then he's going to need to get her to London ASAP.

"Hough's bank accounts should come back online within the next hour," he explains, "and I'm reasonably certain the Met will have located his Audi- it's lying burnt out beside a Tesco's in Brixton- just as I'm reasonably certain the two boys I hired to steal the water-taxi he tried to take to work this morning will have been chased down by the police by now. Either that or the entire vehicle has made it up to Richmond, which will be a lovely day out for all concerned."

And he sighs, checks his watch. They really are on a schedule.

He may be imagining it, but he swears he hears Molly give the tiniest, most miniscule little snicker which makes him feel a little better about where she's spent the last month.

"So one way or the other, Henry, Hough will be back in the game very soon," he continues, " and since the train into the city centre only takes about 40 minutes-"

"-You can't come in." Henry looks disappointed but by the way her shoulders relax slightly, Sherlock can't help but suspect that Molly's a little…relieved? By this news, which makes him feel slightly better. As he watches she turns to Henry and smiles though, presses a miniscule kiss to his cheek. One of her hands rubbing gently against his chest, his heart. Though she moves to break away Henry stops her, taking that hand and squeezing it. The idiot actually kisses her bloody knuckles.

"Remember what I told you," he says, and she nods.

It is only with great difficulty that Sherlock avoids rolling his eyes heavenwards.

"I will," Molly answers. "And thanks. For everything." Again she kisses his cheek, which Sherlock happens to feel in completely unnecessary. "Now take care of Mrs. Hudson, will you, until she's ready to travel?"

And she waves to the older woman, who is still cooing at the child in her lap.

Mrs. Hudson waves back but Sherlock recognises the mischievousness in her eyes: _She's up to something. _"Isn't she coming with us?" Sherlock asks and Molly shakes her head shyly.

"She'll be along in a few days," she murmurs. "Says the country air agrees with her. She has a hip, you know…"

And with that Molly turns on her heels and starts up the garden path towards the road, her steps light and determined. Sherlock follows after her, simultaneously relieved to be leaving Henry Knight's house and suddenly… nervous? Tongued-tied? Any and all of the above? Now that they're finally alone. As soon as they clear sight of the house he stops Molly, reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a slim gold band and holds it out to her and for some reason he resolutely will not think about, suddenly he feels a little… shy.

"Put this on," he says. Shyly.

_ Now __**he**__ sounds like a bloody moron. _

She blinks at him. "What-Why?"

Suddenly the confident, Christmassy Molly Hooper has vacated the building.

Sherlock looks at her like she's insane. _But then he does that with anyone who doesn't immediately do what he says. _"Because we might need to take a circuitous route back to London, and I think we need a cover story." He holds up his own hand, tugs the glove off it. He's already wearing a wedding band, he nicked it off John. "If people believe we're a couple, they won't think anything of my being with you constantly. Even if I follow you into the bathroom-"

"Are you planning on following me into the bathroom?"

"A good detective plans for all contingencies."

"Does he now?"

Her look is irritatingly sceptical.

"Look, I'm just making sure you're safe," he says. "If you insist on returning to London then you're going to have to make some allowances-"

"And one of those allowances is pretending we're married?"

He nods. "If anything happens to you, it's quicker to tell people we're, well, we're together. A couple is easier for people to understand than two friends who happen to be in the same carriage, or two strangers trying to find each other. And telling people that I have, well, a claim on you, makes everyone so much more cooperative when I'm trying to find you, for example, or if I have to get in to see you in the hospital- Not that I'll let it come to that, obviously-"

And he looks at her as honestly and blandly as he can: This is just for her protection.

When Molly seems inclined to drag her heels however he takes her hand and, without ceremony, jams the ring on her finger.

It fits, which surprises him.

_ That pleases him, which surprises him more. _

She goes absolutely still though, probably because he's gone and invaded her space and crossed her boundaries. Sherlock hears Sally Donovan snapping about it in his head- _Have I taught you nothing, posh boy?-_ and instantly he realises his mistake. He's about to apologise when he realises that she isn't looking at him anymore though, she's looking over his shoulder. He turns to follow her line of sight and as he does he sees a huge blue SUV coming towards them, building up speed despite the child crossing sign now planted outside Henry Knight's gates. The car accelerates, aiming for them. The windows are tinted so he can't see the driver, but he's very little doubt about who it might be. Sherlock pushes Molly in front of him-"Get back in the house," he snarls- but even as she scrambles backwards he realises he's too late -_A car is so much faster than a person_-

The car swerves in a spray of gravel, the door swinging open to hit him. Sherlock jumps back, already shifting his weight forwards to ram into the figure which is exiting the vehicle, but though he does so he sees the flash of a blade, the glint of it wicked in the early morning light. Molly screams his name and grabs his coat sleeve, yanking him backwards and away from the weapon. He lands messily beside her, his feet wasting a split second trying to get back under him, and that split second is all Hough- _and it is indeed Hough_- needs.

The knife swings again and this time it's Molly who pushes forward. She manages to force Ollie onto his back, but unfortunately that's exactly what the bastard had planned. _The smug smile he shoots Sherlock tells him as much._ As she lands on him Hough grabs her by her waist and hauls her bodily towards the car, smacking her around the face and head with his free hand as she tries to fight back. Hissing and spitting profanities, the knife now held dangerously close to her belly even as her legs struggle and kick helplessly, trying to find purchase and get free. It happens so fast, one moment she's fighting and the next she's been thrown into the back seat, Hough sliding in beside her, the car keys in his hands. The engine screams as it takes off in another spray of gravel: Sherlock grabs onto the door, pulls, holds on, even as the car starts accelerating off-

But it's no good. It's man against machine and man will always lose that match.

_ Shit_, he thinks. _**Fuck. **__Shit. _And then-

_I'm going to kill him if he touches her_.

_ I'm going to take my time and I'm going to make him sorry he was ever born. _

Within seconds he's back in front of Henry's house, yelling for a car, telling Mrs. Hudson to call the police and then John and Sally Donovan.

Henry reappears beside him in his own car, a metal beast just as big and heavy as the one which took Sherlock's Molly away, and without waiting for his permission Holmes jumps inside, gunning the engine, and he and Knight are off.


	14. Well Roars The Storm To Those That Hear

_Disclaimer: _This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Conchetta, Renaissencebooklover108, NYAriesGirl, Aquitaine85, Katya Jade, Rocking the Redhead, LadyK1138, Silkenslay, iamanasaziana, NicoleJacobs, jankmusic and my mystery guest. Lots of drama coming up so (hopefully) hold onto your hats, ladies... Hobbits away, hey!

**WELL ROARS THE STORM TO THOSE THAT HEAR**

It isn't difficult to figure out which way Hough went.

Nor is it difficult to catch up to him.

After all, there are few things _less _conducive to a high speed car chase than an English country road-

And unfortunately for Ollie, Sherlock is already familiar with the area, which will make hunting him down and cornering him like the animal he is Very. Bloody. Easy.

At the thought he accelerates faster down the road, knocking Henry back against his seat: As soon as he entered the car he scrambled over Knight and practically elbowed him out of the way, unwilling to let him drive _his own car _on something this important, and now he's tearing along the road, trying to catch up with Hough. Whatever his feelings on the matter, however, Henry lets him. The younger man, so sedate in his personality, doubtless knows that Sherlock is the better driver.

And besides, he's already pulled out his mobile phone.

Sherlock assumes he's calling the police.

_ Sherlock assumes wrong. _

"Hello, Phyllis?" he says instead, wincing as Sherlock swerves around a tractor, of all things. "I was wondering whether you could do me a small favour? Could you move that old truck of yours in front of the lead-in road to your farm, and ask Jamie and Reg to do the same with their old bangers? In fact, can you just call everyone with land between Abbeymede Road and the motorway? We've got a bit of a situation-"

A woman's voice babbles on the other end of the line, and Henry nods. "I know, but you'd really be helping me out. There's some lout up from London and I think he's going to try to drive through your back lane to get to the M5. He's got his girlfriend in the back seat- Yes, Molly, she was down the pub on Friday-"

More babbling, as Sherlock grits his teeth and quietly swears. _It's really rather annoying, Henry doing something as useful as this_. "I know," Knight's saying, "Yes, we're passing Dewer's Lane now… If you could call the police, that'd be such a help…"

Sherlock frowns, swerving more sharply, and this time the phone is knocked out of Henry's hand. Apparently Phyllis (whoever she is) must have agreed to his request though because he doesn't try to call her back.

By this time Sherlock can see Hough's SUV in front of him, though it's going dangerously fast. As he watches it tries to turn off the road, only to suddenly stop and skid back the way it came, accelerating again.

"That's my girl, Phyllis," Henry mutters. At Sherlock's cocked eyebrow he shrugs. "The only way Hough's getting onto the M5 is if he smashes through an old hi-ace van Phyllis keeps beside her gates," he says reasonably, despite the fact that his car has just used a scant two wheels to swerve around three teenaged girls on ponies. One of them is so startled she drops her I-pod. "She must've had Adam move it as soon as I called: An SUV's tough, but I doubt it'll survive that unscathed, so Ollie's stuck on this road for now-"

"And Jamie? Reg?" Sherlock asks. "Other land-owners with access onto this road?"

Henry nods proudly. "We call it a round robin. Do it with joy-riders."

Holmes hates to say it, but he may have to allow that Henry isn't a complete idiot. "Anything for Molly," Knight adds quietly, and just like that, Sherlock's back to wanting to thump him again. And thinking he's a moron.

_ You know, you'd do anything for Molly too, _a voice which sounds suspiciously like John's chimes in his head. _So if __**he's**__ a moron… _

Sherlock gives the voice in his head the only pertinent answer available at the moment: _Oh, do shut the fuck up and let me concentrate._

And concentration is needed, if he's to get Molly out of this. Were it just Hough in that car then he'd happily run it off the road, but in such a situation there would be no way to guarantee Molly's safety. _A car crash is clearly an unacceptably dangerous way to get her back_. Hough cannot be permitted to get onto the M5, Sherlock knows this- God only knows how far he'd get, and a stand-off with the police seems eminently ill-advised- But the detective isn't sure how he can stop it. If he even had another car to help him he might be able to nudge Hough towards the Baskerville Base, somewhere Hough definitely won't be able to escape. _Somewhere where a great many heavily armed men will stand between that bully and his Molly, where Ollie might get shot wonderfully, epically full of holes. _But all his friends are in London, all his allies. He might have some pull with Lestrade, and Henry might have some pull with his neighbours, but that doesn't mean-

And then Henry's phone rings again. Knight answers it.

Sherlock sees the younger man frown at whatever the person on the other end says, and then, to his surprise, he goes to hand Sherlock the phone. "It's for you," he says.

"Do I look like I can take a call?" Holmes demands.

They're nearly caught up on Hough at this stage, he wonders whether nudging the back bumper of Ollie's SUV with his own car might get the whole give-me-back-my-bloody-pathologist message across- _Only one way to find out though, _Sherlock muses, accelerating_-_

Henry shakes his head though. "He says he's your brother," he tells him. "And he also says that I'm to put the Infant Profligate on the phone, before he re-enacts another round of _Grand Theft Auto. _I assume that's you?"

Unfortunately that does indeed sound like something Mycroft would say, so Sherlock scowls and allows that he should take this. After all, if Mycroft knows where he is and what he's doing, it's probably serious. "Hold the phone to my ear," he orders and Henry does so. "What?" he snaps, and he hears his brother's joyless laugh.

"And greetings to you too, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "I see that you've arranged another little outing to Dartmoor. Perhaps yourself and dear doctor Watson should consider a holiday home?"

Sherlock doesn't have time for this. "Look, either tell me why you're calling or I hang up-"

Again he hears the elder Holmes' cold chuckle. "Sherlock, when you hack the entire Bank of England just to interfere with one surgeon's accounts, you can't expect I won't notice-" Sherlock snorts at such a preposterous statement- "Though I must admit, having the water taxi stolen was a nice touch. Since I know however that your exploits are to do with the fair Miss Molly, might I suggest you make a slight detour?"

"Where?" Hough's SUV hasn't even slowed down as he taps the bumper of Henry's car off it.

The only thing Holmes gets for his trouble is a feminine scream, and immediately he drops back.

"There is a small side road coming up," Mycroft states calmly. "Persuade Hough to drive down it."

"I'm not endangering Molly like that," Sherlock says, even as he sees the road in question approaching.

He can practically _see _his brother's rolled eyes over the phone.

"Obviously you're not going to smash into him, Sherlock," he says in the martyred tone of a very tired mother charged with the care of a very hyperactive toddler. "Just force him to accelerate, and we'll do the rest."

Sherlock's about to ask who the _we _in question is (Mycroft is awfully fond of co-opting the royal pronoun) but even as he opens his mouth to do so a military police car pulls up beside him.

The driver tips his head to him and then takes off like a bat out of Hell, accelerating ahead of Hough and then dropping back slightly even as Sherlock follows suit. The other car expertly forcing Hough to swerve towards the road Mycroft indicated while Sherlock prevents him from turning around and driving back. Because of the angle he's been forced into, Hough must either stop the car entirely or take the road his assailant wants him to take. He opts for the latter, shooting ahead as the road widens out from the one Henry lives on and dips downwards. A smile starts tugging at Sherlock's lips: He remembers this road. It's the one that leads to the Baskerville military base. The M.O..D would have widened it to allow their trucks to pass.

As he watches he sees other indications of .M.O.D activity. The base's front gates have been scaled back since he was last here, possibly in deference to how damn scary it looked on that _Panorama _special the BBC aired in the wake of Henry's story. As Sherlock watches two police cars flank him, blocking the road. Meaning that Hough will not be able to suddenly stop or pull backwards without running into them, should he smell a rat and try to escape. Apparently Ollie realises that he's being cornered because he slows down a little, the driving becoming noticeably more hesitant. For a moment Sherlock thinks he'll actually do something clever for a change and give up, but just as suddenly the SUV shudders violently, nearly swerving off the road. Jouncing forward, slowing then speeding up. Slowing then speeding up again. There's a quick stop-start, as if two people are controlling the brakes, a squeal of tires which supports this-

And then the SUV's door simply flies open and Hough throws himself from the vehicle.

Hitting the ground with a sickening crack and rolling, head over heels, towards the road's green verge.

For a split second Sherlock stares, the world getting big and loud and sharp and frightening as his mind processes what Ollie has done. His eyes go to the SUV, still careening forwards, and he suddenly realises that nobody conscious could be at the wheel. The car hits the curb and bounces, crashing into the chain-link fence which lines the road leading up the Baskerville. The military vehicle which had initially forced it onto the entry road tries to brake and halt, too late, its chassis smashing headlong into the SUV's side in a near perfect illustration of a sidelong collision. Sherlock tries desperately to remember whether the fence is electrocuted, but he's already bringing Henry's car to a halt and jumping out. The two army vehicles behind him have stopped and are subduing Hough, he can concentrate on Molly now.

The steps which lead to the SUV feel like the longest he's ever taken. Sherlock has never understood the phrase "running to stand still," before- what an asinine notion- but now he understands it all too well. He doesn't really register the feel of the SUV's door handle in his hand, doesn't hear the other military personnel around him. They're yelling and what they're saying must be stupid because it doesn't seem to be about whether Molly is alright, so Sherlock's not going to listen to them. He feels a wrench in his shoulder, his palm aching and he belatedly registers that he's gotten the door open. Molly's lying across the seat like a broken doll, one of her arms at an odd angle, her breath coming in sharp, tight pants. There's blood on her face, one of her eyes is welling shut, but she looks up, straight at him, she _sees _him-

And then there's another hacking cough and she drops her head downwards.

Sherlock hears his voice snap, apparently of its own volition.

"Open your bloody eyes and look at me Hooper," he snarls, "you do it or I swear to Christ I'll come in there myself-"

And he shakes the door, thinks he probably shakes the _car. _

But the threat doesn't work. Nothing works. Molly's not breathing.

Sherlock's sees Hough's bloody knife, lying like a jigsaw piece, like a fragment of a sculpture, obscene beside Hooper and her broken, unbreathing body-

For a moment all is silence, rage, unknowingness.

When he is finally conscious again, three soldiers are pulling him off Hough.

A/N Please let me know what you think. This one was quite difficult to write, and I'm hoping I got the tone right. Thanks for reading hobbits away, hey!


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